Loved in spring, that beautiful rose
She feared to tread on the grass it arose
Trampling on the sacred beauty of life
Fear clenched her, gutting a knife

She died a little, and then some more
Adjusted a little, they called her matured
Her childish heart no longer cried
She learnt to accept, come what might

The smiles were forced, no tears to spare
Grown up she was, no longer scared
She looked at love, knew what it was
Cold within, that world was farce

Mourning that child, darkness she felt
That rose was lost, she no longer smelt
A soul was lost, another freed
Grown from ashes, her phoenix breathed

                       SHRUTI ANAND PRADA