Let me tell you a story of a wildflower,
Born in abandoned holt;
Thriving to survive with all that is left-
Born with the crown of contempt.
It is a story of blooming with onus fate,
Burgeoning to flourish just like else;
Yet bearing shades of weight as time passes-
Making burdens as parts of her existence.
The where she was born, the how she was rose,
The winds she touches, the rhythms she sings;
Set out her presence, unlike the rest-
Heeding imposed the emptied glass.
You will find her rising under shadow,
Titled by others and taught to be mellow.
You will hear chain's clank in her drift,
Leashed to the ground, yet she was freed.
Phase of time revolves being indifferent,
She trips and falls, though flourish at the end.
Her blossom revives any suffocates,
She adorns nearby, burking her secrets.
She learnt to conceal all that bothers self;
"What more can be burdensome than herself?"
She continues drinking all her pains,
They briefed her well, “That is the only way to gain.”
Torments go on in every way imaginable,
Ornamental values do she bring are valuable;
Aimed at high, placed in crown-
With, as obvious, no values of her own.
If you find her in the wilderness,
Surely will see cheering her blisses.
You will be surprised how she is cherishing not being noticed,
Blighting parts of her bit by bit, making everything worth it.
But if you stop the old gypsy man,
Approach with warmth of heart only if you can,
Ask her being close enough-
"Was it worthy? Are you happy as seem from above?"
Surely you will find her lost at once,
Still, therewith the answer will spell out-
"That is supposed, that is what we do."
Praise be upon who taught her through.
Only, just for once, if you can spare her space,
Ensure her protection on being herself;
Profoundness of anguish will take you aback.
Ages of wounds killed her every day,
Yet every time she managed to rise her up way.
Remaining the questions, "How much can one endure?"
"When could it be "the hurt is enough”?"
Little do you aware of the infection's reach-
Has corrupted the core, too hard to bleach.
It’s a long way to go, way of far-reaching goal;
The delay you make, causes the petals continue to fall.
It's high time we acknowledged the crying voices,
Those which echoed throughout the dike;
The dike they built promising her to protect.
Instead, all they did is dominate, violate.
It’s time we straightened all supposed to be,
The space she was deprived, freedom that was snatched;
She should be heard, should live free.
The weight of thought claiming her weaken vessel,
The gravity of thistly patriarch-
It’s time we overthrown trashes and brought civil.
Henceforth, you will be blessed with radiance of ecstasy.
When all the oppressions will be gone,
The difference of considerations will be uprooted,
The invidious heavy breathes for discriminations will be vanished,
Only then peace wind will bath us-
Healing all the wounds and protecting hereafter.
Thence, all wildflowers will blossom with their utmost,
Presenting the surrounding with every bit with joy unalloyed.
Just like the privileged garden roses,
They will hold their space, upraising thee.
Then? Then I will tell another story-
A story with glittering pleasance all the way.
Where there is no suppressed voice screaming to be rescued,
No hidden faces crying under happy deceive.
We knit happy ending in fairy tales,
Why not mending our deeds making life fairy one?
Let’s usher in discretion and let a majestic era begun.