Thy Death Is As Pretty As Thou Art Poem by Pijush Biswas

Pretty rose, whom dost thou love more
Betwixt the sun and the dew?
Thy ever widening odour is thy answer-
I know, yet I doubt!

Remember the time inert thou wert.
Ever did'st thou recognize thyself, a fancy bud
Or those who afforded thee sustenance?
They are none but the sun and the dew.

Yet I see thee prefer the dew
And blame on the sun every afternoon
As the sun's beckoning hands say-
'Farewell to thee, O pretty rose! '
When thou dost pass away anew.

So thou art destined to die, by
Our reckoning hands, indeed;
Forever in need prime-
For thou art laid to stay alive
By thy fragrance in our breathe.
Its not the pitiful death thou hast!
But the death that makes thee immortal
Through finest moments of ceremonies
Of our joyous and merry lives.

So, let none be preferred before thou wilt
ignite; as thy death is as pretty as thou art.