Slouching under Mr Gowda's weathered peeling roof ,you smile
at the red table cloth ,the Darjeeling tea cup , the half lit cigarette and the bronzed ashtray.
As that tangle haired woman scowls back at you...
U have grown pale ..your hues have faded into green.
She is scared that she will loose you,
You are delicate, pretty but de-flower in measured time
You crumble and fall..bemoaning the winter run
You are the icon ..the symbol of all things sublime
in this grey chalk of yellow mortar and purple lime
The sunflower and the museum wait in the corridor of tomorrow
You are the aesthetic which makes today..
In the war of the roses you have won.
Since perfume and promises you assure none,
Your beauty is bound in colour and clover
Like packaged modernity,our clay idols , our living celluloid gods
So bloom unstained, let your devotee devour
The new branch which carries the promise of the hour
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