Like the sunflower, I droop and rise to the sunrays bursting through my petals.
Like the daffodil, I cease the gloom of dawn and bell away with the wind.
Like the rose, I'm luscious red and lure the velvet palms, only to stab them with thorns.
Like the lotus, I stay buoyant in the waters where a water-lily grows beside, I envy.

It's uncanny how I'm unnamed by my gardener and obscure to the fields.
He hasn't watered me in a fortnight and my leaves are wilting.
I wonder if he's deceased, although he's young and tends me—
Well, how am I to know or to assume?

A mere autotroph, stationary till the next havoc, can't knock on his door and unveil my wilt;
Wouldn't that ache my master's heart after I blossomed from east to west, for him alone?
Perhaps it is destined for me to wither miserably,
Perhaps he planted another lily, oh so boring, but I envy her simplicity.

- mathi
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