Like sentinels, two Gulmohars stood strong
flanking my garden gates like friends quite old
growing free, blooming bold tangerine blooms
warning, warding, guarding, standing, asking
nothing besides some space beside the gates

Come the dawn of every March, unfailing
they set their tops afire, jolting poets
from slumber and fanning strong their desires
Viridescence o’er umber, youthful garbs
draped Gaia, and all her children bright too

But now stand neither gates, nor Gulmohars
nor I, just towers high, now far higher
than my friends old, so poets sold now write
lines of blue unholy melancholy.

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