Westerly Gale

Breathing in the sweet petrichor.
Walking on the rain-kissed soil.
Asked I the half-wilted flowers,
Oh why are you thus floored?
Who in this world found your toil,
Of beautifying the earth, absurd,
That thus plucked are you and strayed?
The nectar you bore denied to  bees;
Your sweet fragrance as unspread as the wings of a dead bird;
Oh westerly gale! Have mercy!
Coz you uproot the sap that's to become a tree someday;
The fruits of which efface a destitute's hunger, 
The flowers of which adorn a bride's chaplet, 
The leaves of which form a protective shade.

Westerly gale, tread by as softly as a child,
Breath thus as a nomad's last breath,
Wander like a fatigued wanderer:
Lest you cause the half-bloomed lilies to shed their petals,
Or put the unborn seeds to a permanent slumber. 
Let your wrath not deny the humble rain to these foliage
That drinketh this elixir for survival and revival.
Let your fury not scare the welcome rain 
That purifies the new born and putrefies the dead.
Oh! Blow so that the orchids dance to your caresses,
And roses blush to your soft kisses;
Blow so that the saplings sway to your baritone,
And the sweet scent of the flowers spread to places unknown.

Oh westerly gale! Hear out my gentle plea
Befriend these tulips, these daffodils and foliage green;
Rule their tender hearts like the love
Of a lover that reigns the heart of his queen.