In a meadow, shy and meek,
A tulip bloomed, her spirit weak.
She saw herself as plain, not grand,
Unchosen for bouquets, she'd stand.

One day, a soul with gentle eyes,
Beheld her beauty, to his surprise.
He praised her petals, soft and bright,
And filled her heart with pure delight.

But love, it seems, can sometimes bind,
With selfish thoughts, not always kind.
He plucked her from her earthy bed,
To keep her close, his heart he fed.

The tulip dreamed of grand bouquets,
Of vibrant life in sunlit rays.
She thirsted for the water's grace,
Her passion for arts, her embrace.

Yet all she got was dry, harsh air,
The sweaty breath of one who'd stare.
Soon she wilted, petals dry,
A fleeting beauty, left to die.

In woods, her memory remains,
A tale of love that brought her pains.
For beauty’s meant to roam and free,
Not bound by chains, but wild and free.
© Shree Mukherjee