ANATHEMA

The rose shrub was in bloom.
The flower swayed proudly in wind
It attracted many-an eye
But thorns were quick to defend.


Lookers-on, enamored but hesitant, stared at it.
The insolent one bled but cursed and plucked it.
The shrub stood lonely, sad and naked.
The gardener sighed and continued to work


His daughter too had been gay and plucky
She too withered-cursed by beauty
Whenever, hence, a flower bloomed
He cursed his hands that routinely groomed.

The flower would   soon be crushed
Beauty again tortured for its sake
He feels worn out and depressed
Beauty frightens him-he hates what he creates.

~ Jayanti Sinha ~

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