Four giant Cacti bloomed in our park,
Sporting eye-catching white flowers,
Like small lotuses translocated,
Growing on prickly limbs
Instead of ponds and lakes.
Small buds like sores on an old man’s body
Gave promises of a riot of wild beauty;
Would have wasted away in wilderness
Had they sprouted in forests instead.
Our park was fortunate they decided
To unfold their rare loveliness unseen before.
Many early morning walkers had no eyes for them;
They were busy and had to rush at express speed;
So these blooms had to be content
With me for their wordsmith.
They took my breath away to see so many
Like mouths, each with a story to tell
I hurried to get my camera to click a few pics
As homage to a thankful glimpse of Nature’s bounty,
Looking a fool before others
Who giggled at my protruding rump
As I concentrated on a Macro picture.
One wise old man cursed these flowers.
It meant no rain, for when Cacti bloom
The Earth is a desert, No rain deigns to fall
To quench the parched soil
Cursed by these accursed flowers.
“But, these are beautiful”, I said.
A “Hmph” was all the answer I received
From that sage who walked away
In contempt of my ignorance.
The blooms increasing daily screamed
For attention from every passerby,
Who saw them grudgingly
With a shake of their heads.
Sun beat down heavily, the clouds nowhere seen
The blooms braved the heat till a month’s passage.
Their number dwindling and the clouds now amassing
With promise of rain and happiness
And death of the blooms that were my companions
For a month of drought and dryness
Both in Nature and our hearts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.