A love letter to the plants in my balcony

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A love letter to plants
in my balcony

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એક મુઠ્ઠી માફીના બીજ વાવી દયો
સબંધોની જમીન પર...

વરસાદની મોસમ આવી છે
કદાચ લાગણીઓના છોડ
પાછા ઉગી નીકળે તો...

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Instead of roses gift me aloevera with multiple qualities of beauty

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I love flowers; who doesn't? But I don't prefer them snipped off from the plant. So I'm not a proponent of bouquets or garlands. Years ago, while I still cared for our planet, the forests and plants, I was not so conscious about the lives of flowers. I thought them to be objects of adornment or gifts used to convey and share affection. I wanted to have something that grew under your care. I wanted to see it come from you, to hold it in my hand and preserve it as a herbarium, covertly, under stacks of my books. I wanted it so much, I forgot what it would take to separate that flower from its home. With that thought, I had asked you to bring me one from your garden. And you did. It was a perfect cut at the base of the pedicel, a bright-carmine Dahlia from you in my hand. Six years later, when you cut off all ties with me, it was pure nostalgia. I remembered the Dahlia. Beautiful as ever, but dead.
I wasn't aware you were so good with murder that you'd cut something beautiful off with such dexterity, they wouldn't even catch a whiff of how they were dying at your hands.

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This wall is a chlorophyll'ed jerk.
That plant on its lap grows no
money.
Basically they are friends
without benefits.

Though a jerk,
my wall has never responded
to the seducing pines beside,
who at times has tried luring
with its sexy manicured
leaves .

My wall is a one woman man
who has chosen to love a creeper
without flowers.
It believes in money- gamy.

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Out of all the relationships
You're trying hard
To keep in place,
You could finally be happy
By choosing to stop
Watering the dead plants.

But would you do that?

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Home to me is what
water is to human being,
Chlorophyll is to plants
Mother is to child And,
Music is to dance.......

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He planted a seed of infatuation,
left a garden of love and
watered a weed of fakeness

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अजीब शख्स हैं सच जानता है
फिर भी अंजान बने रहता हैं

कि इक "शज़र "ही है
जो उसे सांसे दिया करता हैं

बूढ़ा बरगद भी कमाल करता हैं
शहर छोड़ क्या आयेंगे गाँव
जो बच्चों का इंतज़ार करता हैं

जिस शज़र की गाँव पूजा करता हैं
उसे तो शहर उजाड़ दिया करता हैं

क्या होगा आलम सोचो फिर
सांस देने को शज़र ही नहीं रहेगा
बच पायेगा इंसाँ जो इन्हें बर्बाद करता हैं

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