Thorn
a poem by Reginold Ajay Jacob, India
Don't look at the thorns,
It was once just green,
If only its Splender,
You had seen.
Most fertile of land
Now studded with thorns,
No one knows it's misery,
There is no one to mourn.
Call it barren,
Or simply pass by,
If only you could hear,
Its soul as it cries.
Too fertile was this land,
Even a twig could grow,
If only passerby,
It's tragedy you could know.
It's plus points hailed its disaster,
Its goodness brought it falls,
Fertility made a thorn to grow,
A thorn, that covered it all.
I planted a shrub,
Thinking it was a rose,
I have paid for my folly,
I have paid, for what, I chose.
Roots have clamped on fertility,
Shoots have turned out to be thorns,
There is none to Care,
There is none to mourn.
Note:- The poem is about the wrong choices that we sometimes make. A wrong choice that we make can ruin our future. It's life that poem is talking about.
This poem was written on October tenth 1993.
