The Flowers Which It Had To Bloom And Hang By Hung They Not Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

O, the flower which it had to bloom bloomed it not, hung it not,
Bloomed, fell and scattered on the forest paths,
The flower which it had to outshine
Shone it not,
The glow it had to spread
Spread it not.

The flowers saw I them sprouting, blooming
And scattering over the forest tract
Just anonymously
Blooming and fading away,
Scattering and falling over
The unknown paths,
Leading to nowhere.

Their beauty who to sing of,
Their internal glow, external shine and the halo of beauty around,
Who to sing of,
As talk we of our poetry,
Poetic creations,
The lyrics
Coming out of the heart personally.

The flower it had to bloom bloomed it not,
The flower blooming and scattering over
Unknown and unseen,
But we singing of our possession,
Singing, dancing and going,
But they silent even in their passing.

To bloom and fade away, flutter away, scatter over and fall down
Decorating the woods, the boughs of trees
And the forest paths
Even after their fall is their life,
But we the human beings after name, glory and fame
So much concerned with,
Losing our happiness and contentment and quietude

But they hanging by anonymously,
Beautifying the whole tract
Blooming and decorating,
Scattering over and falling down
And the forest paths strewn with
Even after their departure.

To bloom, just to bloom and frolick,
Dance and sing with glee is their life
And after this
What it remains here
And this the song of life
That it goes singing,
The lesson man draws from it not.

Oh, their beauty, colour and hue,
Attractive make-up and composition,
I could not,
I could not the beauty of the wild flowers
Smiling and swaying in the gusts of the wind,
Fragrant and fine,
Swaying and swaying,
Hanging over and blooming!

Just one should have the eyes to see and mark
And admire and assess,
As beauty truth, truth beauty,
What it is truth is goodness and beauty truth,
But the passers-by and on-lookers
I see them not pausing by and praising
In full
The fair works of Nature,
The bouquets from the wild.

Only the craze for power and money and craving for gold
Cannot take us far away,
Our modernity is just the love of materialism
And money
And these giving way to urban culture and ethics
And industrial development and its hazards.

The flowers which bloomed they, smiled and hung by,
Bloomed and fell and scattered over,
We could not draw from,
We could not the lessons from
In being quiet and calm in our exposure,
We could not in being
Temperate and submissive, simple and natural
Without being tense and laden,
In being good and beautiful.