Catching the Wind

Days and nights, he spent running To collect a Rose for his inner room Nicely Roses smell, and gorgeous they are. On the one he wanted to pick, he fell At a peek, its sharp prickles stung him Such repulsion, he kept inside his heart. To another he found striking, he moved But cos of worms, its petals had decayed; And in his right hand, all faded hopelessly. Twice, the selection has demotivated him To no one the truth he could openly reveal And desperately seek for a Lily or a Jacintha. He loved Roses, but always failed to get them. As it’s evening time, the sun is already setting. No Rose he got, but had to return back home. Poem by Mugisho N Theophile