A Withered, Brown Rose Of England

It is one of the streets.

The road is moving upwards from this point.

Not a lot of people can be seen.

A cycle is parked nearby.

On one of the platforms made on a grey wall,

A withered, brown rose is lying

Facing towards the other wall

But is showing off its worn off silver shine.

It is not as withered after all

When it has not lost its charm

Even after its great and dynamic fall

Nor can one see it squirm.

These roads are not of India, I know

And if it is London,

I cannot say for sure

But it is surely in one of the streets of England.


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