Blood in the Garden

There it stands, swaying in the wind,

A face filled with the joy of color, and happiness,

Waving to its brothers and sisters, who prance lightly as well,

All with unique identities of their own,

They create their home, a place we sometimes call as Nature’s Abode,

A hearty sea of color in the midst of the concrete all around, a Garden.

There comes the wind, and brings along with it someone,

A small someone with a ball in hand, but followed by a guardian angel,

There flies the ball in the sudden gust of air, and there bend the performers,

Elegant and seductive, they stand unaware of the misery waiting upon them,

And there scampers the little giant behind his invaluable article of play.

His short legs pumping up on the grass, he sprints as fast as he can,

He sees nothing in between, nor does he fear any unseen obstacle,

But what may he know of the lone descendant of Nature, who waits there for his friends,

Calling to them, awaiting their presence,

And as it sights the imminent danger, its screams overflow with distress.

Tears flow down their eyes, but the legs still pump,

There goes in the thorn as the giant collapses, beaten by the ever invisible obstacle,

Trampled to death, crushed and trodden on,

It stays motionless on the ground, even as the wind tries to excite it back,

But it’s gone, gone with the wind as the idiom goes.

The giant slowly crawls to the safe haven of the angel’s arms,

Yet anguish and distress prevail, along with the pain and the hurt,

‘Cause now there is Blood in the Garden, and it is not the red that it usually is.