Sunflowers

 


The sunflowers are dying,
Withered petals, drooping heads,
Row after row,
They stand defeated.

In the beginning of summer,
The plants stood lithe and tall
Their rich brown centers,
Spiked with gold.
Fields of light,
Bursts of joy.

Each day life seeped out,
Infinistemally,
Treachorous, insiduous,
The wound within.

How could they
In the prime of life
Foresee death?
Ward off
The invisible enemy?

And so they stand vanquished,
Bent earthwards,
Patiently waiting the end.


Arunima Choudhury