Gulmuhar Tree Poem by Sumita Jetley

By the window, the poet sat,
Where the sky wore streaks of fiery chat.
Golden hour, a fleeting muse,
With blooms aflame in crimson hues.

A breeze danced soft, insistent, shy,
Carrying whispers the petals sigh.
Each blossom swayed, alive, untamed,
As if each secret had a name.

'If your name had been another, ' he wrote,
'Would it still echo the same soft note? '
'Would it still linger, sweet and true,
In the empty corners where dreams accrue? '

The tree leaned close, as if to say,
'Names may change, but hearts won't sway.
It's not the name, but what it holds,
The weight of stories, the warmth of souls.'

The pen flowed fast, the thoughts ran free,
'Would your name, like the gulmohar tree,
Still bloom vibrant in the verse I weave?
Still wrap my soul, refuse to leave? '

And as the sun dipped, soft and low,
The blossoms fell, their amber glow.
A fleeting smile, a whispered art,
The poet wrote for the feeling—not the name, but the heart.