About a Song

The morning was trying to arrive with
small fragments of hope,
and apprehensive expectations of joy,
When they vanished, little by little,
morning still came,
But it came with a stillness and a void.

It came and the garden was cleaned,
the plants were watered
The dead leaves were swept and gathered to be burnt.
There was no sun singing a song of a waiting day,
Birds continued with their incomprehensible chatter

Something started drying inside,
Without your intervention,
The agony was so hard to bear that
you went and turned it
into a love song
nevertheless, sans hope, nevertheless
without bright dreams.
Yet it was a rose or a hibiscus bud,
waiting to turn into flower.