Every niche when God creates he doesn’t think, whether it is small or great. Craters are there, volcanoes erupt,a tremor shatters, all are in fear. They ask God –“ are we your dear?”
They never bothered, when river swelled up, the birds stopped singing. When mountains shelter them in high,
When harvests were golden, creatures all mindful, they say it is for them and not for nine. The nine are not chosen ones. They too have the same thoughts. The lilacs will grow again and I am simply but a rose.