The world is a garden,

Green, lush, and fruitful.

Through many centuries,

The gardeners invented a word to define the flowers:

Beautiful.

In the eyes of the cultivators,

Beauty is many things:

From the delicate white daffodils,

Fiery orange marigolds,

Deep blue delphiniums,

To the rich, succulent red roses.

Stems plucked,

They exit the grove

To examination.

Each flower is given a name

And a meaning.

Sweet aromas waft up to an awaiting nose.

Thorns prick tender hands

As the realization sinks into a thick skull:

Life in a nutshell

Is the constant judgment

Of what’s worthy and what is discarded,

Based on talent and glamour alone.

Flora chosen for their elegance

Are snatched from their backyard homes,

And often wilt for lack of nutrients they seek.

Searching for love and happiness,

Flowers thrive in their beautiful terraces.

Ruthlessly uprooted

Plunked into a cold, unforgiving vase,

Their leaves will grow limp,

And petals will plummet to the far away floor

While yearning for the familiar soil tangled in their roots.

But beauty never lasts in a garden or in the world

Because the winter rolls in

And the frost bitten plants wither away.

Just as a person troubled by the pressure of society

Crawls into the background to hide from the critical eye.

In these times,

Elegance is already dead.