The Lifeless twig

My grip on the window pane loosens

as I close my eyes and prepare to fall

towards my freedom from this unending labyrinth

of sorrow, helplessness and tears. 

My eyes they fall on this tiny twig, 

near the edge of the corroded wall. 

It is naked brown throughout but a few burnt leaves cling on to the near-dead parent. 

It is deprived of love, warmth and water, 

and barely it holds on to the cracked bricks. 

Its roots are deep into the apertures beneath my window. 

It is lifeless, scorched by the flaming sun of day, eaten up by various predators in the dark of the night. 

It is a symbol of death to all distant viewers, 

but that changes when you observe it up close. 

On the thinnest of branches of the wilted twig, glimmers a beacon of hope for the coming spring. 

When the sun softens and blesses the recipients,

when the winds smell of birth, 

the tiny bud on the dying twig, will break into life. 

It will grow from the thin, ash coloured stems, 

It will bear flowers, painting the bricks in beautiful colours, 

It will fill the air with the scent of growth

and breathe life into the half empty vessel. 

And thus I pull the windows shut, 

for I too may have buds unheard of, waiting to bloom

when the spring sun shines on me.