By Srishtika Prakash
I am the garden
budding into flowers,
on my way to becoming
a forest full of bloom;
my roots run deep below
where I nourish my soul,
my words are the adornment
nurturing those who walk in my garden
without plucking the flowers
that I grew on my own —
that's the only condition
that will allow a tresspasser
to pass by in a peaceful manner
because my roots are ready
to become a mangrove, if need be,
you will trip and fall
in a swamp and be swallowed
because when I'm the garden —
Nature is the only constitution
that my soul will follow;
so don't prey on me
because Earth is the largest predator,
you don't know how many graves lie buried
under the green grass that soothes your feet —
for my garden was once an empty land
in a drought craving for rain to fall —
and it did not —
because they cut the trees around me,
laid me bare, skinned me to humiliation
they burned me to hide evidence
of their misdeeds
but don't forget:
this soil is only an apparel
and Earth is the most mean predator,
it only took a seed that the wind brought through
and a cloud that passed by
only to cry over my deadness —
not realising they together birthed
the deadliest garden;
it only takes a happenstance
despite dire circumstance
to not die when the pyre was set for you —
to live once the fire burnt you —
and call yourself the Sun that shines
upon my garden whose roots run deep below
where I nourish my soul —
not with water but
my own blood
that seeped into the ground,
remember — the Earth is a ferocious predator
only because the preying came first.