Awaited Poem by Surya Pratap Singh

A fly went to a flower and asked,
What hath thee hidden underneath that colorful mask,
Art they thy belongings,
Or are they a bagful of my longings,
Or they are a gift from the sun,
Or a parcel from the air,
Or some drops of wine love,
Dropped by the gloomy weather,

The petals you hold,
And their pigments, which my eyes behold,
Where hath thee gathered them from?
Aren't you afraid of losing them away,
In a day of storm,
Won't this dishearten you?
And shatter the shimmer of the gifts given to you,

I think, said the fly,
It's the leaves which cook those pigments,
From the gift of sun,
Parcel of wind,
And a touch of lime love,
from the Cupid wings

I will talk to you, o green leaves,
As the flower blinked on nothing,
But on give-and-take of thee,
And you seem more down to earth,
Seated lower on the stem,
You hath seen the flower since the budding,
Has it been the same?
may it be summer or winter,
Or autumn or spring,

Pouring the answers in the dry colosseum of questions,
The leaf, all the melancholy of the flower, to the fly, it mentioned,
The flower when it was just a tiny bud,
met someone with pigments all over its body,
She too was tiny, so colorful, A ladybird

The bud then was hidden in shade of the grasses,
Was covered under the shadow of the tress of huge masses,
A buzz in his ears he felt vibrating,
When opened his eyes, he saw, the sunlight breaching,
As he couldn't find the source of the buzz,
He bloomed a bit more through the dense fuzz,

Looking out for it, searching out for it side beside,
The flower stretched more and bloomed out into colourful petals five,
Asked the grasses, the tress, the snakes and the bees,
What was it that waked me up,
Give me, about it, at least a blurb,
All replied to have seen nothing,
Nothing passing nor buzzing,
Listening this, the flower popped into weep,
All its tears collected and became nectar,
Still it waits, for the buzz to return,
Bloomed quietly in the forest,
With petals five and green leaves some