|One of the first roses that bloomed in my little garden|
The following poem was inspired by it.
Why do you look so penitent
like Tagore’s flower
that asked the master
to pluck it without delay
lest it droop and drop into dust?
Aren’t we all made for the dust?
You leave me wondering, however,
whether it’s the same master
that created the night’s worm
Isn’t the worm made for the dust too?