Palash
There is no doubt the Palash is an ill-groomed trees,
Like a dowdy old lady,
Who is unkempt and dressed carelessly.
Except in spring; when like a recrudescence of old desires
The sleeping tree suddenly suspires,
With a million scarlet fires.
The fiery flambeaux burning bright
In the unromantic summer light,
And setting the grab forest alight.
True the silk-cotton blossoms have a deeper red.
That the amaltas is more brilliant can’t be debated.
But my joy in the palash is unabated.
It is the true herald of spring,
Along with purple sun-birds hovering
Over the mango blossoms on a March morning.
