9 am,
It has to rise again
To the woes of its mother,
The songs of another
The cries of a friend
Are they still on the mend?

Cries of horror seep in,
As it gobbles its bread,
Welcomes the hues of yellow and blue and purple and green
And then suddenly, in a final blow he sees red

A black eye, belt unbuckling,
They belong to each other
And it to them,
Ruins of a plague like bond,
A memory as sickening

He’s not him, she’s not her
But it is still theirs
Ugly and long and divine almost
Memory holding just as clear as it is blur

Buried those seeds a long time ago,
Of violence, apathy, umbilical blood in its wake,
Still ruddled, riddling through a bond,
A painful mistake

What ever has grown from a mistake
The ashes of a seed once sown
Red and blue and scarlet it sees,
Broken leaves looking towards the sun forlorn

The seeds were sown damned
And thus grew a damned flower
It dreamt of a rebirth- as soil, the rain or a phoenix
Would the dream of rising from its ashes be allowed,
At the end of its hour?

Will it ever live its dream?
Or lest be buried in the soil?
Will the sun ever redeem the wretched flower
of the centuries of plague and its life longing toil?

-Neha Kamalapur