Bougainvillea

I did question my dear father, as a budding kid
It was genuine on its own from an innocent mind
It was about the vivid flora caught my eyes
Which struck my heart at first glance


Its colorful, it’s wonderful, it’s delightful, it’s blissful
And it’s beautiful, is it a flower?


Father looked into my eyes, and just said, my cheery dear
It’s not a tree, not a plant, not a flower; not a shrub, it is Bougainvillea
It is a thing of beauty, though not a joy forever,
You regard it, gaze it, admire it and you adore it.


Name it not, let you be baffled
With wonder in your heart you get puzzled
It never reveals the charm unravelled
It had seen the land untraveled
It’s not a tree, not a plant, not a flower; not a shrub, it is Bougainvillea



It won’t complain, it won’t moan, it won’t whine, it won’t lean,
It will just be a spectator for the world unseen
The silence speaks better than words is its lesson
Which it took years and years to learn
It’s not a tree, not a plant, not a flower; not a shrub, it is Bougainvillea



No faraway lands, no legendary times
It’s just grown with your own rimes
It swirls and curls to airy chimes
It never has any melancholy mimes
It’s not a tree, not a plant, not a flower; not a shrub, it is Bougainvillea



It’s not behind the mountains and the moors
Nor does it hide behind showery shores
In times, it lies still and be gleaming
Like a bundle of beauty seem dreaming
It’s not a tree, not a plant, not a flower; not a shrub, it is Bougainvillea

 

Father, I know now, it was not just about flower

It was about the unsaid feeling, which heart cover
It won’t change by my tears
It won’t bend by my words
Father, I learnt now, it’s a truth, but bit bitter

 

Which shattered my morning twitter
It cut my wings and faded my smiles
It shaded my shine and blinded my eyes
Father, I feel now, it was not a feeling
The wounded heart has no healing
Words uttered were never meant
Feelings showed were never felt
Father, I realize now, its reality

Lonely nights with teary eyes and the serenity
Memory of spoken words with broken heart
Life now stopped playing its part
Father, I see now, the weeping heart has a repent

For believing the words and for being innocent
The game played in the name of feeling, which was not real
The world and the people being so surreal



The heart just mummers with no shimmers

The silent tears drop down the cheeks
It’s not a tree, not a plant, not a flower; not a shrub, it is Bougainvillea
It’s not a feeling, its not heart, it’s not like, it’s not love