Who even made the rules,
Of a rose having thorns,
Why is it crowned to be beautiful,
And secured by spikes around?
What about,
the dainty lily,
The cute tulip,
And brave shoe flower,
Growing wild?
Aren’t they pretty,
Aren’t they plenty,
Or will they just,
Wither by?

Who even made the rules,
For the trees protecting everyone,
Why is it crowned to be strong,
And made a bodyguard all along?
What about,
The little saplings,
The green grass,
The small seed,
Giving life to it?
Aren’t they brave,
Aren’t they courageous,
Don’t they need,
A hand in the mention too?

Who even made the rules,
To ignore the sweet sound,
Of a life blooming to fly,
Why is it just admired,
And pampered for all who’ve died?
What about,
the little things,
Of jubilation around us,
Those which work in perfectly harmony,
To create a synchronous orchestra for us?
Whose presence matters,
Oh-so-little,
But the absence,
Leaves us tingling for touch.

Who even made the rules,
To stop believing in miracles,
To ignore the magic happening,
All around us?
Why is everything,
Taken for granted,
What about,
The lives of the non-living,
Which pacify our vision,
Till death do us apart from bleeding?