Flowers have never despised 
the rain, even when 
they were getting 
wrapped in watery nights.
That is blindness and death 
don't scare them.
That is the white scar is what they keep close.
This is directly proportional 
to the enigma of us.
We are but flowers in grave,
We are but rain without lands.
May be we are orange seeds stuck between throats of a war,
where flowers are ironic.
May be we are light oozing 
from the last lamp on mother's lap,
where rain is death.
May be we are square roots of melancholy, where flowers are
remnants of peach sky.
May be we are radium burned eyes, for which rain is a dignity.
So, a field of flowers 
waiting for rain is a mirage
we are not yet ready to encounter.
That's why we find it monochromatic, realizing the woes of waiting.
That's why we chew happiness,
like an alien finger.

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