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