The florists in the scentless shops,
Selling flowers in the bouquets of stalks,
Origin of these blooms really unknown,
All look the same with same and mutated genes,
Staying in the vase for many more days,
Gulping of chemicals as the nutrients of life,
These are from many parts of the world,
When group together in the region of the maps,
They are very different, acquiring the snap,
Shots of wisdom that has been stuffed,
In their miniscule, broad and mutated brains,
Brain, mind and thought are the same,
Politically adjusted, economically nourished,
Philosophically suffocated, all these people,
Think and speak the same when they are in one region,
These bouquets of people might have understood,
Progress of self depends on thriving of others,
Accommodate even the spiky grass and the gathers,
They are beautiful everywhere in the world,
Irrespective of peace or on the hostile ground,
A bowl full of meat and corns or half full and empty,
People express through their national habits.
We are a part and parcel of a system here... a glitter of hope is still left out for our revival soon.
Most of us are products of our environment, influenced and manipulated by social mores which are often outdated. Very good write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
People are like bouquets of flowers. Beautifully described.