Even weeds have flowers and leaves
and they long for the light.
Weeds dance in the sun too,
and exult in the breeze.
Until, one not so fine day, a discerning eye
labels the weeds,
Then, quickly they are massacred and discarded.
Because, they are weeds.
They lie drying and rotting under the sun,
a sun, under which they had danced before.
All because, the mind that loved the garden,
labelled them weeds.
And, weeds have no purpose,
and no one cares about their story.

On the wide and vast land,
the beggars, the immigrants,
the poor and the sick
the weeds that no one wants,
eyesores to the beautiful urban gardens of humanity,
lie massacred and discarded,
like the weeds.
And, weeds have no purpose,
and no one cares about their story.
The seeds fly in the wind,
going far and wide.
Seeking unknown places and strange lands.
The seeds they are born anew in new soil,
carrying a secret part of their origin
and become a part of the land they set roots in.
The seeds, they spring forth
and grow flowers and leaves.
They long for the light,
dance in the sun
and, exult in the breeze.
Until, the discerning eye labels them
as worthy to keep,
or, just labels them as weeds.
The ones that stay in the garden,
they have a story.
They carry exotic stories of faraway lands,
and how well they fit into a garden.
And, the weeds?
The weeds are just weeds.
And, weeds have no purpose,
and, no one cares about their story.

- Srividya Srinivasan 31/01/2017