Very early in the morning
Brumous daybreak of mid-November
With vague feelings of deep melancholy
She slowly hobbled towards
The old potter's field,
Where her beloved was laid to rest
Years ago, under mountain crest.

She stood silently first
Then she picked a red rose
From her flower basket.
Putting it on his grave,
Effaced her wet eyes,
With old dirty frock.
Then saying wonted good bye,
She retreated to walk.

In the freezing early morning hours,
The street was quite and implicit,
Snow flurry had just stopped.
She saw again, some familiar faces
Coming out of their venerable,
Old homes. Holding lunch boxes.
Native souls saying to each other,
' bye, bye love'
Walking away empty handed,
Buying no roses, but their eyes often were candid.

She paid no heed to them at all,
Emerging slogan of fake love.
She repeatedly heard for years.
For they never bought
Red roses for their love, they ever sought.

She came this morning with accustomed pledge
To sell all roses, before the end of the day
Old flower basket was hanging in her arm
Throughout her life, her chore had no charm.

At the end of short winter day.
She was still sitting on the wooden box,
With last bouquet of red roses,
That was marked down at half price
Which could hardly any one entice.

She saw her old friend, Jim at a distance.
Howling with delight, she rushed towards him.
And offered the unsold bouquet of roses
In gleeful manners, as usually she poses.

Amazingly, he admired her loving gift,
' Amy, you never gave a single rose to me ever
Its my lucky day, I thank you, however.'

'Today is my birthday'.
She expressed in a common way.

He glanced at her wrinkled face and the roses,
With an expression of deep love
And presented it back as a birthday gift
She took the bouquet joyfully in a shove,
Gently she smelled, and found herself in a freshly love.

Copyright May 19,2003.
Ashraf Gohar Goreja