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
English 
العربية