Rose

The garden danced to the cold morning breeze

It had roses that never ceased

 To bring much joy

To whoever dared to look

For the breeze was possessive

Like snow

Looking pure yet aggressive

In stripping away warmth

 

The rose frowned, shook,

As the breeze caressed its furrow

Upon her gentle petals filled with sorrow;

“I’m not waiting to be picked by you!”

The breeze never thought it true

That a fragile rose could be so fierce

And not speak in tears

“What are you then?”

All frowning and covered with dismay,

“I’m the whole garden” she dared to say

For she truly was the whole garden

With its roses and carved petals that harden

With strength and power under a full moon

 

But she also was the stem and its roots

All covered in dirt and fruits;

She’s the whole garden, not just the rose

That pleases your eyes and curls your toes

 

“Then why do they pretend to be the rose all the time

When they’re much more; it’s a crime!”

The breeze wondered to himself

 

They’re not mere roses created for beauty,

They have other more important duties;

Some create roses from its kind

Some have chosen to only pursue their mind

Some are shackled by their own roots

Who are terrified of what will become of the brute

Amongst the clouds and its stars

When united with the crimson rose

Whom the stars would fall for

And steal its innocence

Then, no breeze would take her

And she’ll wither away, unspoken of

 

But those same roots say

The breeze can travel as far as he can

Caressing as many roses as there are in sight

And the whole world would think

Him a hero for it

And then when the breeze

Is done, he becomes a hit

Choosing none of the roses he hit,

Going to a different garden where no breeze

Has ever been before

And only the rose with the strongest roots

Would be deemed a perfect fit

 

Why can’t the rose have a genuine breeze

That treats her with ease

Having been to but few gardens

And cheers her on

Whilst she chases her dreams?

 

If she chases the moon,

Her roots would think she’s merely a tune

In darkness, caressing every star in sight

Just like the breeze does in the light

But do you really think

The rose would care for a star

When she aims but so far?

When the whole sky is hers

To grow, learn,

Discover, explore, earn?

 

When she’s up there, soon,

With the moon

No one will help but look

At how she’s carrying a book

Of poetry and one of prose

And a thousand gushing

Ray of ambition, intellect overdose,

 

But if she’s in her roots still

Not daring to think about moving until

She becomes frail and ill

She’ll appear to be

Like any other ‘sensible’ rose,

Who chose

To wait around to be picked

 

See, she’s not your typical rose

Waiting to be picked up by

An already accomplished breeze

She’s the whole garden

Aiming for the moon

That will help her shine

Up in the sky, attracting

But the purest breeze that has

Also reached the moon

 

It’s time those roots got a trim

And the petals, eyes

Seeing clearly that all

It takes to get to the moon,

Regardless of him,

Is a bit of flying

They’re much capable of trying.

 

By, Zeinab Hamdar, Journalist, Editor, & Writer

Embrace the Empowerment