There was a man named Dheek,
Who loved a plant amidst fields,
He travelled far, to water her large,
Leaving even his mother, in tears.
They took a house,
His plant and he,
And furnished it in a wild theme,
Then Dheek, he took to his books and work,
Safe that his plant was near.
Time went by, Dheek he read,
Many more books, and met scholars countless,
Until one day, he saw his plant,
Wilt galore, dried, witless.
In tears, in terror, he ran to the medic,
Doctor, save my plant, please do.
For I live for this plant, I love this plant,
And I shall die, when this plant dies too.
The doctor, a middling man, but with hair so grey,
He looked at Dheek from over his pair.
Only one he had to ask of Dheek,
Boy, do you water this plant every day.
Now Dheek he first, puffed and scoffed,
Of course, what a question, he said,
But the doctor, his eyes were stern, severe,
And the truth it came in pieces.
I do forget sometimes…many times…
OK…the whole of last week…month
But Doctor, I swear, save it well,
And I will care well henceforth, I swear.
Dheek, he then, watered the plant,
A lot more, for a month or so.
Then his books, his friends, his scholars again,
And the drift of life swept forth.
The plant wilted again, and Dheek despaired.
The doctor sighed, and cured.
Dheek he wailed, without fail.
I love this plant like my own.
And in this timeless loop, they were caught,
Dheek and the plant,
Of love, and loss, and life, and death,
Until the day, the doctor proclaimed,
I shall water this plant henceforth.
Never, said Dheek, my plant not yours,
He struck the doctor down with force,
Built a fence around, with wires of steel,
To burn man or beast that came forth.
The plant, now wiser,
Did not grow far,
Just wilted more often,
For Dheek’s love and care,
And Dheek, he felt, they were growing fonder now,
The plant he had loved for years now,
Each time it wilted, he loved it more,
Until the day, it wilted no more.
For it had wilted too far, and no sun or doctor,
Or water or care, could save the plant,
Dheek he cried, and told a story of love,
To the weary doctor, now tired and old.
The Doctor, he laughed, at the nature of man,
To own, possess, but never to nurture,
And the nature of plants, to be mute spectators,
From disdain to their deaths in torture.
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