Like a two dawns old flower,
you crumple onto yourself.
You knew this was looming;
An inevitable verdict of the elements,
The same laws that turn cosmos into dust;
But you my sublime entity,
A mere spec on the nonerasable map,
An unidentified island
Being weathered by crashing waves,
Sinking slowly into a bottomless ecosystem;
If seen from beyond the crystal dome,
Your identity is blotted beyond a blot,
But down here;
No, not quite there yet.
You are still wrinkling.
Maybe the inevitable will happen tomorrow,
Or maybe two thousand tomorrows later,
But your petals will caress the nude earth;
An untainted coitus to make you whole
Right after you were grudgingly vetoed.
No, it’s not cruel;
At eighteen or eighty,
This amalgamation is equally divine.
Now you’re reaching the third dawn –
Third being the last.
And it’s such a capricious spell;
Some cross it in the blink of an eye,
And some grovel with it for epochs.
And you my dainty flower;
Maybe you didn’t endure the changes fleshly,
But the journey of the mind is more ensuing,
And you did crumple after all.
So how will you shed yourself?
Like that garnet rose elated among its thrones
Sheds its petals one by one,
Or like that snowy lotus thriving in the sludge
Sheds its petals all at once?
I can’t elect the superior route.
Maybe there are more ways to let go;
Innumerable other techniques
Executed by innumerable other flowers
When they are done blooming.
But the question isn’t when;
The question is, “How soon?”
Pushpanjali is an 18-year-old literature student and freelance illustrator from Jharkhand,
India. She likes to challenge stereotypes and social interdicts through her poetry, and this is her first publication.