A rose on the table
Carefree as if it were on a holy tomb or in the inner shrine
Surely, it would have it, but the fragrance does not reach me
On a tiny little stalk, huddled together, a circular pattern of petals –
What a combination of beauty and tenderness

Scarlet red 

On a window-seal in a well-watered pot 
appears a stained spring -
Why does the rose not even look at it?
Why do the rosewater and the rose-jelly complain publicly, in a bitter tone
that they have nothing to do with it ?

Look, I’ve been staring at it all this while
and yet, - what would lead to beads of perspiration on the brow -
does not even form a single dewdrop on it

May be it is a rose; may be it isn’t.
In all probability it is ( but one can’t be so sure these days )
may not be so
If we go by denotation, then it is 
But by connotation, it may fall short of the thirty two defining characteristics 
Well, whatever it is
but for me life has turned into a dilemma
I don’t have around me experts to seek advice from – 
like a bee, a honeybee or a butterfly 

To say that this is a pseudo rose, - may sound a little odd
especially in our language, but I can’t help it
Under the influence of suspense films
taking soft steps , cautiously
I tip-toe closer to it

Oh!
This one is just pretending to be a rose

On its worn out petals bold letters in cold print
are arbitrary and incomplete
Broken sentences and limping allusions
Truths of yesterday hobbling in their blackened faces
with crutches in the armpits

It has an unashamed finesse of touch
And a smell of obituary 
But one must agree on one thing, 
It’s crafted amazingly, in a cunningly natural vein

Crafted from old newsprints
Look at its blazing colour!

Scar-lit red.