In petals bright, a circle blooms,
A tapestry of fragrant hues,
Where every leaf, each tender thread,
Whispers tales the earth once knew.

One grows the marigold with care,
Its golden face aglow with sun,
It speaks of warmth, of joy, of love,
Of harvests rich when day is done.

Another tends the jasmine vine,
Its ivory stars like winter's lace,
A story soft of moonlit nights,
Of dreams that time cannot erase.

The violet blooms a deeper tale,
Of mysteries in twilight’s hue,
Where shadows dance with whispered winds,
And secrets stir the morning dew.

Each flower tells a life, a path,
A journey long, a fleeting breath,
In Pookalam, these blooms entwine,
A living poem defying death.

Together in this sacred ring,
The growers' hands, the soil’s embrace,
We see a world in every bloom,
And in each story, find our place.
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