Petal by petal the pain blossomed.
And light by light the sun grew.
Does the sun feel his age?
Does he, at dawns, wake up just to be done with the job?
Like feverish folks.
Does his skin ache?
At times, does his light lay a little dim?
Does he, at dusk, feel nostalgic looking at the yellows?
Before resigning for the day,
does he murmur marigold poems?
Does the monsoon come to give him a little rest?
And do the petals blossom taking it all in?
Taking in the rays and rains.
And with it the memory they carry.
Memory of time and tribulation.

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