Oh many were the days that I strode through the meadow,
And smelled the sweetest rose.
And many more were the days that I reached out to pluck it,
And yet, as I did so, froze.
For time and again, the thought crossed my mind,
“What if I should bleed?”
“What then would befall me?”
“Who then would console me?”
“Who’d tell me the things that I’d need?”
So day after day, I walked through that meadow,
Walked past that beautiful rose.
Walked past that picture of great natural wonder,
Walked past, because that’s what I chose.
Till one day,
I could take it no longer,
I went out to that flower,
It took me less than an hour,
And I plucked it without any queues.
And as I drew that blossom from its earthen bed,
I felt a prick in my thumb,
I looked down without command,
Saw blood on my hand,
And the sight of it turned me numb.
It wasn’t the pain of the prick that bothered me,
I barely noticed that.
It was the knowledge that this blossom,
This thing that I held,
Had been brought to where it couldn’t go back.
Never again would it sit in the meadow,
Never again would it grow.
Never again would I pass it and think,
“That’s the sweetest rose.”