Free

Caged as she was
She loved the golden gates
That barred her from painting the colours
In the canvas of the white sky.
She loved the anxiety of her captivity,
Her food that came through the bars,
The tender hands that caressed her,
The rough hands when they smothered her,
And the hands when they ignored her.
The need for the suspense
And the exhilaration of the unpredictable.
Trapped in her emotions
She killed the peace in her.
Never shedding a tear for it.

She wails for the bars that have finally broken down;
The absence of the hands that she knew so well;
The taming imprisonment that she so loved...
Never realising that she is free.
Free to reach the morning horizon
As it bends over in a glorious arc
Yearning to touch the golden dish.

"Quae fuerant vitia,mores sunt."
(What before had been vices are now manners.)

Seneca,Ep,39

The spring that blushed in Delhi
And the blush which deepend yellow....
The raadhachuura petals holding their heads high
In the dazzle of the clear blue sky.
And then...
When spring is over,
They are strewn on the streets.
Brown and dry...buffetetd by the wind that leads them to their graves,
Under the pedestrians boots.