By Solomon Belete Haile
I heard the birds singing,
Robin, chickadee and starling,
In the fresh air of spring,
It was my flower's time too,
To flourish and blossom,
Under the blue, bright sky's bosom,
Beneath a cheerful moon,
A canopy of bright stars,
Swelling surf and new grass.
Alas, my flower,
She'd been through rough weather,
The wind, the chill, the stormy winter,
Leave her alone, come on gardener,
It is spring, let her prosper.
The gardener planted a flower,
Atop Ethiopia's highland 'Wollo meder',
Adorned her with beauty and glamour,
Nurtured her with aroma and savor.
She was gentle, yet strong,
Swayed in the wind but never broke,
Blossomed for a spell but not for long.
Her tall stemmed stature,
Flamingo akin splendor,
Transplanted up yonder,
By the swift action of the gardener.
Oh benevolent, caring gardener,
What have you done with my flower?
If you wonder why I am despondent,
Withdrawn from life,
Here is my answer:
I missed my flower.
It seems to me unfair and absurd,
Justifying the wrong and lopsided,
I'm not questioning the gardner's wit,
I am left bewildered and puzzled.
Kibitzers suggest at times:
To take a moment and deep breath,
To search and find the silver lining,
That I may justify your doing;
But, where is the silver lining?
Why disrupt that pretty flower,
Why pick her up instead of another?
In your garden she seemed at ease,
To our look and tactile embrace.
Now that she is uprooted,
Taken suddenly and lifted,
Relocated to a new abode,
What's left of her to exude,
Is a few petals, buds,
And a memory of her resplendent.
Abeba Belete Blazek
(May 19, 1962 - July 19, 2003)