The Flower

A sage with true deep eyes told me once,
with conviction and austere appearance,
‘That if one wants to be in youth and bliss,
sans sorrows and sans his ways amiss.
so that on his face, the day he dies,
any line of discontentment shies.
Search for this flower in mystic wink,
In lilac a tint of saffron pink.
You don’t find it in day or night,
but some time in their peaceful fight.
Blossoms then but don’t know where,
far or near or here or there.
And no one gets to miss it twice,
so take it not a throw of dice.
But don’t get caught in illusions, though
in highs and low some many grow.
Mind the signs if caught in mistrust,
true colors cease to erupt.
Don’t ever look for, when in run
its magic seeks oblivion.
And its leaves are very elusive too
Like thorns numerous and never true.
If you find it, in no way hurry,
there itself your glee can bury.
With little water on its root,
with tender hands then you uproot.
Plant it in your dwelling very soon.
In peace you wait for the fore coming boon.’
I see it in all of my dreams,
wandering in varying realms.
But I don’t seek it when awake,
may it find me and let me take.