Gardening the Bhutanese Way

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Conversation with Nerium

Amid dusty roads thee stood,
Amid drought thee doth not wilt.
Amid scorching rays thee doth not shrivel.
Amid incessant downpour thee doth not drown.
Amid gusty gales thee flung but a gentle swing.
Amid dusty roads thee glees thy bloom.
Amid tiresome load of thy bloom,
Thee housed numerous pupae and their adults.

Now may I interrogate thee?
Thy exquisite blooms?
Thy waxy lush leaves?
Thy hardy firm roots?

O’ Lovely thee!
What have thee absorbed through thy roots that made thee explicitly lovely?
What made thee withstand the vagaries of catastrophes?
What inner peace thee possess that made thee smile always?
Can thee hear me?
Can thee see if I paint a picture of thy flawless blooms?

Let’s come to consent:
A painted picture of thee would I present before thee.
The same would I frame with verses appraising thy beauty.
This would I share with the people around the globe,
And so shall I make thee famous,
Make thee overtake the status of rose,
Make thy fragrance be greeted by every nostril.
But I need thy promise,
For thee to unfurl a truth to my long awaited quests.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

The Sweetest Melody

 Here is this poor girl!
With nought but a purse.
With tremors in her fingers, tears in her eyes, accelerated beats in her heart;
Does she lift a paper, a paper embedded in the folds of her velvet purse.
This does she unfurl,
The paper in the realms of its four immaculately folded corners,
That enveloped a photograph of him.
This does she gazes at unflinchingly,
Gazing at the lips that played the blissful tunes,
The lips that motioned into varying indentations
To produce the sweetest, yet the saddest melody;
The lips that uttered the sweetest words.
She gazes and gazes and gazes…
To her heart’s content.

O’ my man!
The flute you played,
Had chilled my spines,
Activated my tear glands.
Melted and sealed my heart,

O’ my golden-lipped man!
The flute you played,
Took me to the serene foothills of the mighty mountains.
Thy sweet melody, the source of warmth on this wintry day.

O’ my sweet tongued romance!
The sweet melody still lingers,
In every crevice my brain possesses.
Thy blissful tunes, the seed of my bliss.

Friday, March 15, 2013

The Landlord's Fate

The landlord had his instructions to his trusted constable,
To have tamed his white-furred pony in the stable.

When he discovered that his lover eloped,
He had his white pony galloped.

Only in the far corner did he see a smithy,
Where a lad was at work in a hut that was grimy.

No other trails did his blazing eyes spot,
His wounded heart alone knew how brutally he was shot.

The rage that burnt in his eyes was fiery,
While the trudge across the slopes was weary.

Sprinting was he on his white pony,
With his darting eyes that looked horny.

At the rugged terrain had the rattling hoofs of his pony slipped,
It had the pages of his life story flipped.

The broken fragments did he try to repair,
 With his efforts in utter despair.

The crimson spotted exquisite bloom,
His only comrade wept in gloom.