Morning breeze blew the yellow flowers
On the street, over the path
Millions walk and trample these flowers
Still they lay, with their iconic beauty
Lest they are badly crushed
Their beauty is ruptured
Mixing with the dust and soil
It talks about their turmoil
But, no one heard its pray
Was it waiting for someone, who may
Pick it up, and put it in vase
Alas! it is crumbled and dead
No more beauty, nothing to be said...
