By Anindita Basak
Today I shall leave the blood behind,
Maybe chlorophyll, for a change of kind.
Maybe it’s time to look beyond the flesh,
Write of trees that bloom, or those trapped in the thresh.
Yes, I’ll write of trees—
Trees that never blossomed, swayed without ease,
Or I could drift back to the pink petals bright,
But that feels unfair, a short-sighted flight,
To only celebrate birth
While we ignore the struggle for acceptance, for worth.
I watched the cypress bow low,
Under the weight of dusk's final glow,
And questions took root in my mind…
Are there trees too late for the sun to find?
Do they all rise with the light’s embrace,
Or do some still sleep in shadows, in a dreamer’s place?
For a man of science, I know it sounds strange,
But don’t trees respond to touch, to change?
Haven’t we seen them feast on insects alive—
Or break through concrete, trying to survive.
So why not believe
That trees, too, have hard days; they grieve?
Last twilight, Father's goodbye fell short,
And the tree, thinking he’d never report,
Curled into itself, slept through the days,
Finding no meaning in the sun’s bright rays.
Perhaps it waits, in silence deep,
For a voice to call it back from endless sleep.