In my small town, garlands hung with care,
Each morning, gifts for gods in fragrant air,
My grandfather’s hands with gentle grace,
Placed hope and love in every sacred space.

Yet time, the weaver of both joy and woe,
Turned garlands from a bright to somber glow,
On his cold form, their beauty turned to mourn,
In grief, the blossoms’ meanings were reborn.

Now flowers tread the line ‘tween life and death,
In vibrant bloom or on a final breath,
They hold the power, tender yet profound,
To lift us high or lay us on the ground.

A fragile bridge between our joy and tears,
A silent witness to our fleeting years,
In every petal’s grace, both worlds transcend,
A poignant tale that flowers never end.

Written by Abbirami Jegan