ALSphere Foundation
The wilted flower.
Hued in colors, myriad,
The Marigold, Jasmine and Roses,
Adorn the feet of the Lord.
The fragrance lingers in the corners,
Dipped in the essence of divinity,
Flowers symbolize purity.
It wilts with the advent of dusk,
The freshness diminishes, and petals droop and fall, shrinking into a husk.
Wilted flowers are thrown in the river water,
Some decay, and some settle as sediments, pure,
In the riverside or an abandoned harbor.
The flower’s journey is over.
Like a pilgrim who is enlightened in the divine tour,
A flower senses the fulfillment of a purpose, bigger.
The one that serves the aim, higher,
To bloom in its majestic colors,
And embellish the threshold of a temple,
To touch the divine aura of the Lord,
And serve hours, singing hymns of a prayer.
To tread and encircle the auspicious gamut,
And remain unattached, to worldly affairs,
Birth and death are a cycle, meagre,
What difference does it make to a soul seeker?
The flowers happily wilt, underneath the Supreme power,
Living a life of realization.
