Withering Red Rose

I was a fine red rose with roots not so deep and thorns not so sharp,

built of store-bought seeds

and the water that the hose would feed.

I was not tendered and I was delicate.

When winter would come,

I would freeze for all that I lacked,

And I would become a withering rose.

For all I had grown to be,

my gardener was at fault.

He planted a white rose,

fine and sweet, as white as snow,

he learnt from me,

and white rose was built of the finest of seeds and the purest of water,

I was a mistake that was amended after the torture.

I watched at my withering state, as I was going to be no more,

the weight of uselessness was as heavy as the roots that would pull me down.

although you have learnt,

A better treatment and you wouldn’t lose me,

but gardener oh gardener,

your false belief pulls you down,

that once I’m broken, I’m never worth fixing again.

So I watch as I die,

I watch as she grows.

Eyes filled with envy, was once filled with hope.

Eyes that would bloom, drown in its tears.

And everyone thought red roses were special every year.

F. Zahra Yoonus

This interview was conducted on behalf of Merak Magazine.


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