On the stony floors,
Lay the tree’s offering.
Trampled and rejected.
As they lay crushed,
Their fragrance still pervades.
A single champa flower,
I lay on my palm.
Crushed petals,
Wilting into wet skin.
Delicate.
Deformed.
Dead.
Blooming on the mighty tree,
Revered.
Lying on the dusty stone,
Ignored.
Beauty alive or dead,
Is it all the same?
What choses what we want to see,
While leaving all the rest.
Who told us when to close our eyes?
Who said to see like that?
To see what we want to see,
Is it a blessing or a curse?
A single champa flower,
I lay on my palm.
Crushed petals,
Wilting into wet skin.
Delicate.
Deformed.
Dead.
Is it natural beauty,
Inherent in an object’s form.
Or society’s teaching,
That beauty has standards.
My champa is pretty.
I know it is.
I stroke it’s withered petals.
Why isn’t it?
From when did we classify,
From when did we think,
From when did we say,
“This is beautiful.”
Tomorrow, they’ll be swept away,
Discarded in tidal waves.
Ripples of prejudice always remain,
On the surface of the water.
Blooming on the mighty tree,
Revered.
Lying on the dusty stone,
Ignored.
A single champa flower,
I lay on my palm.
Crushed petals,
Wilting into wet skin.
Delicate.
Deformed.
Dead.