Usually things fall to grounds,

The fallen becomes nothing but dust,

To preserve them, you need to

Push a little.

Usually the appearances fades away,

Beauty die with ages,

To maintain the charm, makeup every moment,

I think, when life will be on waning ends,

When death will try to lure me,

What those words would be,

That summarises this life-story.

What will be the story?

Immaculate childhood or a thoughtless youth,

Or a dejected, sad, pathetic life,

Setting on horizons,

We won’t be sun,

When we rise back again,

Then, shall we be called Sun.

Withered like this one day,

Nor shall we be called roses,

Whenever we will spread fragrance,

Then, shall we be called roses.