Today I sat stunned before a dark rose. It had turned a deep violet, the colour of a poisoned wound. The petals parched at the touch of a fingertip. It stood old and wise, and yet proud with its petals unfurled and crisp. Now, it wouldn't be stroked or caressed. It had been the fragile chalice; it was now the grave gauntlet.
More than the tenderness of a bloom is the pride of a wilt.
4 comments:
Nice post..hey u got a great blog..pretty nice pics too!!Keep posting!
hello sudarshan,
Thanks. Oh! I get some great pics through email forwards!
Nice! Yes, pride stands tall. Wilt or no wilt! :)
Hi blue,
Thanks. :-)
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