Friday, 30 October 2009

All That I know Of The Black Rose

I haven't seen it, my garden is devoid of it.
Heard it grows alone, heard it is born once.


Of all the colours, it is the most special;
Seasons' blessing rests on it,
It doesn't grow on Earth.
You need a different place.


Deep dark full of flesh.
Sweet or sour nobody knows the taste.
Only you can see it,
Seductive to the eyes,
Attracting making you clutch it hard,
And that's when it strikes.









A rush of blood, touches your nerve
And you are touched by the
Magic of the Black Rose.


Then you know about it,
Nothing special, just like others.
Only the colour is black
Only it is born in a different place.


Inside pages, of old books,
Inside kept aside from your view.
What it was before we don't know,
It is born out
When the old spirits dies off;
It is born when
White Yellow Red Pink
Turns Old.

6 comments:

Shankar said...

THats a very good poem.. nice one..

Arundhati-Chatterjee said...

Grt Grt..loved it...

√♪נ汉Ψ said...

nice poem.....really gr8..
keep it up...
:)
http://www.scribedbyme.blogspot.com/

Siddharth Gupta said...

sudu i just love ur writings..
keep up the good work

Dr. Pankaj said...

Lovely...

Amrut said...

Nice...liked it :)