Flower – Tulsi Shrestha

FLOWER

I am colourful flower, spirit of human life

Symbol of your love and compassion

Span of my life reminds all of you

The reality of death and essence of life.
Although I fade within a few days

I do spread fragrance to the world 

I bathe your world with rainbow 

Bees help me to provide you nectar.
I stand for peace and brotherhood 

I bloom to enchant the soul of the world 

The beauty of nature remains incomplete 

Unless and until I join there
Dews drench me with sweet love

I transform them into precious pearls

The winter breeze whistles then

To greet our mutual eternal love. 
I like spring to enjoy rain kisses

I sing a song of joy and sorrow 

A colourful bunches of me

Is offering to one who rests in nest. 

Poem – Flower – Paul Celan

The stone. The stone in the air, which I followed. 

Your eye, as blind as the stone. 
We were 

hands, 

we baled the darkness empty, we found 

the word that ascended summer: 

flower. 
Flower – a blind man’s word. 

Your eye and mine: 

they see 

to water. 
Growth. 

Heart wall upon heart wall 

adds petals to it. 
One more word like this word, and the hammers 

will swing over open ground.

English Poem – The Flower – George Herbert

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasures bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivl’d heart
Could have recover’d greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Off’ring at heav’n, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-shower,
My sins and I joining together:

But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be
That I am her
On whom thy tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
George Herbert
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