Basking sunshine, Soaking heaven
Mine melodies become thine bloom
I whisper a scent-
It can charm you in.
Call me- my love, my queen,
And I will fill your barren land
With purity that delights your soul.
And if you intend to claim me boldly-
Let me show you these thorns that I adore.
And if you dare to catch the words of the whispering wind
Let me tell you the Rose's Tale-
Of a daughter who rests in peace.
(ii)
I crown a corner of a mundane paradise
Where the vendor's voice echoes diligently.
Where normal people talk their usual.
The fragrance of coffee, simmering oil-
Is a scent beyond mine.
Potter's wheel, barber's scissors, beggar's vessel-
All rhyming in tune.
"Petrol prices have risen too much, no?"
"Indeed, we should protest about it"- converses, pedestrians.
"There is a sale at Graham Mart today",
"Really, let's go there, and then we can dine-out as well"-arrange the ladies in satin.
"Shame, Sale, Protest, Society
Global Warming and Government-
are the words I usually soak.
Sometimes, I would wonder,
if these words have somehow silenced,
the lingering silence of a royal daughter.
(iii)
I remember that day-two decades ago,
On angelic dawn-
When crescent streaks bloomed the dead,
The daughter of royalty descended noisily.
And I had the luck to be a choice in millions,
As she became kin of mine.
A moon-lit blossom, she was
The song of myna rhyming the winds
Her tiny toes and dimpled smile,
Strayed the strangers from a mile.
"Hopscotch, tag, playhouse,-
are the games she would count.
Her comrades would be aligned for another mischievous plight,
"Me-mother, Nina- father, Romy- baby"
And lo! Plot-set, characters-set, the story begins.
(Ah! That unfinished story.)
"Oh! Rosy dear, I finally got this dress,
And there she goes, twirling in a glittery gown.
"Do you know I am finally going to fair tomorrow?"
"See- I made my first roti."- she chirped happily.
"My teacher praised me in front of the whole class today".
Giggling, screaming, chattering, she would never stop.
Her bright eyes were always full of joy and excitement.
She was-
A rose that crowns the beauty-
Of innocence and purity.
Oh!
My dear royal sister,
What a liar she became!
Always talking uselessly about-
Diamond ring, music notes, growing old and boundless freedom.
And that ridiculous purity and first sex,
Even though her uncle's hands became a bit bolder,
Those full-sleeve dresses choked her in summer,
Six p.m. boundary flashed jubilantly,
And her lover bought her skin for free,
Those music notes committed suicide,
Hanging from the rope of society's stereotypes.
Her boldness became the prey of words.
And she became,
A rose under their feet-
crushed and tamed.
(iv)
"Wilson's daughter ran away with a girl. What a shame, no?"- her aunt says.
"Indeed, a shame"- croaks her ma, watering flowers in the courtyard.
Their conversation flows smoothly.
And I wonder, how come they have-
Professionally ignored the chaos squeezing a golden heart,
Left by that stranger, who dared to
Climb the wall and destroy her father's Bougainvillea's.
So,
My dear royal sister!
Let me lend you these thorns of mine,
Sweeten your voice and cage your boldness
Tempt them slowly, prick their hearts.
And if you were to be reborn,
Be the rose that crowns the bed-
Of thorns and dirt.
©julliepoet
J