A Flower In Prayer To God

(1995: a sustained analogy of two characters with a flower and a tree) .

Roots in the earth, face skyward:
A flower I look unto you O God,
As when the sun too harshly bums down,
For the rain of heaven it looks up pleadingly.

My slender frame, you mark Almighty God,
The tender waist, the fragile face,
A little heat discolours the rose from my cheeks,
Why then, all this harshness?

It came first as a surprise to me O God,
I who in the shade had been born and bred,
To be awakened from my slumber one fine morning,
Like a sleeping baby slapped,
My tree-mother above me, suddenly snapped,
Away from me - that emblem of limitless love
Who in her own magnificent being absorbed
Scorching heat, storm, driving hail,
That I may in my nursery, her lap, play gleefully,
Or in the lush carpet of green
Lie pillowed down,
Stirring a leaf perchance,
By my gentle breathing.

From that lap of comfort am I now thrown out-
That freedom from care, that luxury of ease
Is mine no more; no more
The gentle, soothing sensation
Born of Peace, that humans call Love,
Plays in my bosom and justifies to my reason,
The meaning of existence.

My delicate, sensitive ways too I have forsaken,
As indeed ill-adapted they were
To my new changed position,
When once the winds fury-taken,
In mad and brutal rage against me had blown
(That my back bent down, and my face touched the ground,
And in that posture I remembered you God,
And that same posture remember still) .

Chance but chance it was, I say
That I remained
By some weak fibre of root still attached.
Perhaps the glory of my lovely past
Glimmered flickeringly in my bosom
Like some still un-extinguished torch,

Teaching me that all-consuming hate was not all,
To hope beyond the pale of hope,
Beyond the benumbing aura,
Of absolute, pitch-black darkness.

Now have I stood up, look on me God,
Now have I taken root, now am I strong,
Living with weeds have I learned their ways,
Now have I the strength of ten such, I am proud to say,
They have taught me the trick of life; yet still
My sweet God, they cannot justify to my mind
My present life, while yet
My reason remains flower-like.
My faith is my strength, my virtue my power.
And the sweet, glimmering light in my bosom,
Hope of Love, that spite of all,
Defies, grows stubborn, and lives;
Yet God, while so the goal eludes it,
The hope grows weary and questions my faith,
And I lose my strength,
And seem like a fool seeking streams in a desert.

So my God hurry,
I am but a frail flower,
A hundred years of hardship will not do for me,
Spring itself lasts but a season,
And I think the essence of life
Is youth.

The winds bring me tidings every morning
Of the advance of time,
And I tremble to think of not being snapped,
Only to wither slowly:
A worse end.

Do then, Lord of all powers, do bloom but for an hour,
The heart of this poor, little withered flower.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Nazmul Haque 13 January 2012
Unimaginably beautiful poem. I just love and like it.
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