Photo by Igor Starkov on Unsplash
Photo by Igor Starkov on UnsplashThere was a blossom happening, away from plain sight; deep in the heart. With a petal or two, it was forming a thing of beauty, spreading aroma as it grows. But a worm was also growing at a distant site— keeping an eye on the flower as it grows and lurking around for the perfect opportunity to have the first bite in tender petals.
The flower was aware of the worm but didn’t pay attention to its presence as it heard the worm was on the prowl many months ago and it was sceptical about its whereabouts these days. They said it's still here, but the young bud believed— these are gossips; none of them is formidable as the sky is brighter now with white clouds, and the lingering smell of fresh sprouts is more captivating than ever. Leaves are accumulating more moisture and becoming greener with every passing day— the sunshine above is strengthening the growth and preparing the succulents for an overhaul after the harsh winter. Why on earth the worm will climb the thin limbs and waste all the energy to reach the petals— the young bud thought.
It didn’t know the beauty those tiny petals entail, the aroma it spreads in the air and the dazzling display it puts when the golden ray of the sun hits it from the opposite. The southern breeze carries the fragrance with them and entertains everything in route highlighting the benevolence of the young bud, the birds feast their eyes on its vibrant colour, the moon kisses its bottom piercing through the dense forest and the dew drops shower themselves and slowly drips down the stem once it’s heavy with the microscopic spores it holds within— the young bud didn’t know how adorable it was to the blue butterfly living in that tree.
Everything around was so fond of the young bud flourishing in youth and beauty and gradually becoming irresistible to the worm awaiting patiently. On a fine morning, when the first ray of sun hit one of the petals, the shadow cast on the earth was different— it didn’t form a beautiful oval shape, instead, the top right corner was torn apart, and a dark line was slowly moving inner ward, ruining the beauty of the petal, fading the colour inch by inch. The worm has reached its destination and has already started devouring the tender, soft, and juicy edibles.
But the birds were not there to protect it, the southern breeze didn’t blow harder to toss the worm off, and the morning dew didn’t make the petals slippery enough for the worm to fall off. The sun could easily distract the worm by shining hard and making it retreat to shades, the butterfly could flap a bit hard to shake the long stem and threaten the worm with its big camouflaged wings. But there was a time when they enchanted the beauty of the young flower, they used to feast their eyes on the spectacular dance of it— where are they— the flower has to live, for that there is a long way ahead. Its youth has just started to provoke the bees, the colour is yet to be at its fullest intensity— no, no, it can’t die young. The first spore hasn’t foamed the hornet’s face, birds are yet to harvest the honey out of its core, the lover is yet to compare his love with the beauty of the flower, and the poet has not written about it— how come that little worm slaughter its dream so soon.
Our young bud slowly raise its head to find its companions around, but, there were none— the birds, air, sun, butterfly, and morning dew— they have deserted for that it cannot attract them anymore. The worm has claimed the petals with its claw, leaving a dark spot behind— our young bud’s companions, they are the worshippers of beauty and to them, black is never beautiful.