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The flowers of Solitude

Wednesday 31 July 2013, by Londen Phuntsok

Over the smoky charred cow-dung cakes
under the luminous stars, of sobbing zephyr
armada of mosquitoes, been repelled and squashed
beside the creaking noise, of the silent night.

They speak about the marvel’s of the world
of those apparent news and views
they heard of , china newest obsession
and everyday update of their veiling neighbor.

With every ounce of sad news
they forbear and hail " fate is all "
a chatter box joins and mutters into
what is hot, cold, bitter in the colony.

After sometime, they will disperse
by tomorrow morning , she will be alone
the left uncle and the right sister
the front Mr and the behind Mrs.
tomorrow sun will rise by her courtyard
and there she will be, all alone beside rolled wool’s

All day, she sits at the porch
her hand busy, knitting woolen socks,
sweaters in scorching summer heat,
for she has to make a sale in coming winter,
where a fete is organized near her place, once every year.

Amongst the background of her state in denial
a white rose plant grows in solitude
between the nodes of the white rose
spiral of cobwebs, lay there amazed.

In dark, it shines a spot in black
in day , people agape, awed at its beauty
passerby hunch, begs for pray offerings
so, if they could pluck one or two
her eyes brim with pride and of possession
white rose plant exudes a joy feeling.

Indeed , it was her only jewel
from fear of grazing cow and children
as she placed bucket of water far aside,
so, the thirsty birds won’t perched on it.

But the dry heat, of late monsoon
has burnt, rotten the petals of the roses
i remember the day i cut, every tip of it’s stems
she enjoys my brief company and says
"with arrival of the monsoon, buds will sprout"
would hover around her courtyard, like fairy angels
would culminate her melancholy,
will sprout a smile on her face.

Far from her view and her hold
I’m under a juniper tree
it rained today, like gallons of trinket drops
with cold blow of vapor, i stood there shivering
in front of me in wilderness
a sun flower shines bright, yellow in green
dances swiftly in drizzling rain drops.

It gave me reminiscent of my grand mom white roses
would the buds have sprouted again?
would i have made her smile?
would she be missing me, right now?
as she remembers the day, i cut it’s stems
and a strange heat rushes beneath my cold skin.

Every night, when sun dips down
stars spread its shimmering blanket
she is accompanied by every other person
who thought of life simple thrills.

But by morning, all are gone
in wake of life unmerciful deeds
all would remain, are those white roses.

Many things remind me of my grand mom
whenever i see white rose, i see her
like white rose, she stood as a sign of kinship
the brevity, poignancy of that white flower.

To me she is a flower …
a flower which sobs
a flower …
a flower of solitude..

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