Immortal Poetry Poem by Matrika Pokharel

He planted poetry
in a vase in the mansion
and said to me
this is how you ought to nurture
a flower to blossoms.
I showed him poems
of many hues and colours
along roadsides
on the foreyards of huts
and said
these too are beautiful verses
they too need to be cared for.
Annoyed,
he turned his head away
and made an about turn!

The next day
I looked at him
from the abode of my poetry.
He had forgotten
to water his plant in the vase.
The wilted flower
turned to me, and wept.

Two days later
with a withered flower in hand
he walked up to the roadside
looking at my garden
and asked for a live flower.
I turned him to the field
where live flowers thrived.
He gawked at them without a word.

For that, in this part of the world
I declare with pride
that though they be at a slum's backyard
or at nooks along narrow streets
or stepped upon by the obese aristocrats
my verses are immortal
my poetry is immortal!

©