The Butterfly and the Rose

He hurried down the hill, the playful butterfly,

Thirsting for his queen, the morning rose;

She turned her face, shunned the fickle lover,

The rose;

Fluttered the butterfly closer,

Tenderly to woo the rose,

Beg for mercy,

To caress once more her silken blossom,

Languorously to cradle in her folds;

Aloof she stood in the rising sun, the rose;

In the vanity of her solitude,

Frigid, in the pervasive warmth that arose,

Naked, deceived and betrayed,

Indignant by the deep humiliation,

The Queen of flowers, the rose!

Her magnificent crimson petals, she had shed,

Her strong, splendid green leaves had fallen,

Her sharp, shielding thorns were gone,

Lost in the wilderness her alluring perfume;

One time the butterfly stroke her,

Forever he touched her soul!

Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

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The Rose and the Fox

It was in the year 2011; I had a work session in Paris.
By sheer chance, I met a young German woman. Her name was Rose. She had every reason to bear such a lovely, adorable name. We shared many ‘likes’- FaceBook, writing, reading and Indian food. Over a hot and spicy vegetarian meal, she confided in me that she was in love with an Indian guy. Unfortunately, the feelings were not reciprocal. The Indian guy, she told me, was the fox in the tale of St. Exupery. This is how the story unfolds-
“Once, a fox came down a valley of roses;
He approached a rose and gently whispered to her –
You are the most beautiful rose in the world!
The rose replied – No, sir! You are mistaken!
We are all of equal beauty!
The fox, blinded with love, went on his knees and mumbled inaudibly –
 No! You are the most beautiful of all!
The fox was so very deeply in love.
 In the whole valley covered with thousands of roses,
He had eye for only one rose; His chosen one!’
End of story”
I noticed big, salty tears running down the rosy cheeks of Rose and falling in her plate.
 Rose! You’re crying! I exclaimed.
 No! It’s the gravy! It’s too hot! She lied, wiping her tears. Anyways, she added woefully, I am not the rose of the fox. His rose is the most beautiful rose in the valley!
I nearly choked with unexpressed sadness but was unable to console her. I promised her from the core bottom of my heart that she will, one day, find her fox too. We parted.
As I strolled down Place de la Republique, these comforting thoughts crossed my mind –
Women are fragrant roses in the valley of God;
For every rose there is a fox down the valley 
Who loves her more than anything in the whole world

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

 

A RED ROSE

FullSizeRender (10)My parched lips touch the crypt furtively

The biting of the white marble

Down my spine runs shudders weirdly

My eyelids flutter in bewildered rapture

Drops of tear fall down my cheeks

Merging in the dew of a red rose hungrily

A red rose on your tomb lying silently

With trembling hands I cup the red rose

On my heart I press firmly

A token of your love,

A vestige of the unforgettable past;

The verses of my poetry

Where do they come from?

The rhythm of my song

Where does it stem from?

The fragrance of the red rose

Where does it spring from?

The words speak of your love

The rhythm speaks of your love

The red rose speaks of your love;

Of your warmth, your tenderness

Your immaculate beauty

They have woven precious history

Is this the end of our story untold?

Or the beginning of a new romance,

An eternal saga of two souls?

 

– Anita Bacha – Puttaparthi- India- 18 March 2012

A RED ROSE

South Indian Rose

South Indian Rose Picture/Illustration/Source/Internet

                   

My parched lips touch the crypt furtively

The biting of the white marble

Down my spine runs shudders weirdly

My eyelids flutter in bewildered rapture

Drops of tear fall down my cheeks

Merging in the dew of a red rose hungrily;

A red rose on your tomb laying silently

With trembling hands I cup the red rose

On my heart I press firmly

A token of your love,

A vestige of the unforgettable past;

The words of my poetry

Where do they come from?

The rhythm of my song

Where does it stem from?

The fragrance of the red rose

Where does it spring from?

The words speak of your love

The rhythm speaks of your love

The red rose speaks of your love

Of your warmth, your tenderness

Your immaculate beauty

They have woven precious history

Is this the end of our story untold?

Or the beginning of a new romance,

An eternal saga of two souls?

Anita Bacha