I am a yellow rose lovingly cared for by an old man
Who planted me in his garden
I am in full bloom now but he doesn’t come to admire me.
I can see part of him from here
His hand is sticking out from the pile of rubble
That was once his house.
No one has come to his rescue yet
His son has been missing since eternity
His daughter had died before him
And his wife has been trapped in her hysteria
Ever since the bombs started dropping
And the blood started flowing.
All around is the sound of gunfire and screaming
There are dead faces and faces drowning in tears
Everything is painted red with blood.
Wars and flowers have often been seen together
Flowers have bloomed on the sharp edges of barbed wires
And rested on the graves of dead soldiers
But nobody knows the truth about these flowers
Nobody knows how the greyness around them
Invades their bright colors and makes them wish
That they could wither away.
Maliha Iqbal is a student and writer based in Aligarh, India. Many of her short stories, write-ups, letters and poems have been published on platforms Live Wire (The Wire), Creativity Webzine, Cerebration, Histolit, Countercurrents, Times of India, The Palestine Chronicle, Freedom Review, ArmChair Journal, Counterview, Good Morning Kashmir, Writers’ Cafeteria, Café Dissensus, Borderless Journal, The Cadre Journal and Indian Periodical. She can be reached at malihaiqbal327@gmail.com.
