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| A Wither Rose |
A Wither Rose
Once, I passed through
An olden graveyard
Having a bird eye view
On the peaks of sediments
Looking like a stocks
Of inline series of rocks
Graves, graves, everywhere
A glean was just spare
The city of the solitary
Silent dead burry
Some of them adorned
With the garland looking mourned
Some of them embellished
With wreathes, and Roses Red
Some of them looking very old
Some with just fresh clay
The fresh and wet clay show
The buried of two or more days ago
And the dry, barren old clay
Speaking the story of much older
There on an old but not much
A rose lying dry, with no charming touch
Talking to me, as I swear
Oh man! Passing through here
For a while just turn to me and look
Once, I were also a blooming rose
Emitting a charming scent
And alluring alls hundred percent
All were yearn to adorn them
With my scent, petals and stem
Demise were not in my mind
Never think dryness of this kind
One or two days ago dear
I plucked out and spread over here
On the grave of a dude
That had spent hundred years of life with proud
As long may be the life span
But eventually oh man
All will have return to eternal home
In the graves looking like clay’s dome
See oh traveler see
And must think thee
You, one day come here, this sage
After having the end of age
In a good and lamenting manners
A wither rose talking to me
A wither rose, talking to me greatly
With a great fact and realty
Still, I feel scent of truth when wind blows
Of a wither rose, of a wither rose
Still I have the sounds of those words and echoes
A factual speech of a wither rose
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