The Gnarled Snail and the Windblown Rose

The windblown rose bloomed in a desolate corner of the garden.
The gnarled snail, bent with the burden of life, winding his way through the garden,
which burgeoned with many a beauteous flower and painted leaf of myriad hue,
chanced upon the windblown rose in the corner of the garden,
and he halted in his tracks, struck with wonder –
This little rose, that grew in this unkempt corner of the garden,
almost lost in the unruly tangle of weed and grass,
wafted a faint, but heady perfume; she bloomed with a rare rosy plume.
He crept up to her, keeping himself hidden from her face,
dragging his heavy shell on his bent back,
and looked at her windblown beauty in silent reverence.
He then dragged himself around and looked at her rosy face
with his heavy gaze. In his heart he knew at once,
the windblown rose was his, and his alone. To her heart
he decided to lay claim.
With gravel in his voice, a throb in his words, the snail
demanded of the rose her heart.

The windblown rose was startled out of her reverie.
So desolate had she been in all this time,
in that abandoned corner of the garden where she dwelt,
she had forgotten how to hear, how to know,
how to speak the language of love.
And here stood this bent, gnarled snail at her feet,
who spoke to her of love with his gravel voice so full of
the throb of his heart.

The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

But when she cast her eyes on the snail,
she was aghast – This creature, so bent, so gnarled with time,
Was making claim to her heart? To her soul? To her love?
She disdained the longing she saw in the eyes of the bent snail.
She scorned the throb she heard in the gravel voice of the bent snail.

She, the beauteous windblown rose, longed
For a beauteous prince who would
Sing paeans to her beauty with honeyed voice,
Fill her heart with a gaze overflowing with love’s sweet pining.

But, so lonesome was she, this beauteous windblown rose,
-- her prince had not come to sweep her in love’s joyous clamour,
though she had waited long --
to while away her time, until her real prince happened along,
she decided to play along with this, her suitor,
this bent, gnarled snail, with longing in his voice,
with throb in his voice, laying claim to her windblown heart.

So, in reply, to keep her lover in her thrall, she spun
webs of sweet words in skeins of silk.
To entrap him in the lure of her charms,
she swayed, she danced, she bloomed,
pirouetted and pranced in the beguiling breeze.
Using her enticing song as wings on her feet,
she swirled, she twirled, she whirled,
with carefree abandon.
Using her rapier skills of enticement,
she thrust her brilliant bounty
into the enraptured heart of the gnarled snail,
with a matador’s cruel skill --
-- to blood him -- to bring him to his knees --
to hide the ashes in her heart.

The snail, gnarled with time, bent with wisdom,
although mesmerized by his windblown rose’s charms,
knew in his heart that this display
of wondrous grace was but a charade.
While his windblown rose offered him
the make believe sweet affection of her rosy plume,
the blush of her deep heart she kept veiled.

With entreaty in his eyes, with imploring voice,
He beseeches, pleads, prays
to his windblown rose – to open her heart
to ignore his outer shell, gnarled and bent with time,
to instead look within his tender soul
that yearned for but a glance, a touch,
a single note of truth that would reveal
the unfeigned beauty of her, his windblown rose’s,
true heart.

The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

The windblown rose cast her gaze
once more on the snail – and all of a sudden
she knew, her heart knew – she saw beyond
the gnarled shell, she looked within his tender soul,
she heard at last the throb in his gravel voice,
she understood at last the longing in his heart.

But woebegone was she, the windblown rose,
her long desolation had hardened her heart.
Though feather soft bloomed her petals,
the sweet song of love had deserted her soul.
After the dry heat of the long summer months,
when the monsoon shower had come at last
to drench her with life anew, she knew
she had forgotten what words the cloud spoke to the rain,
how birds sang and made themselves understood,
how bees made love to the blushing flower.
She had forgotten how to speak the language of love.
She had only rapier words left churning
from the ashes of her burnt soul.

But the snail is adamant, stubborn, resolute.
He wants to teach his rose how to bloom, how to blush again –
Lugging his heavy shell he straightens his bent back,
and begins a slow waltz, crooning a love song.
First, a song sung in hushed voice,
to melt her heart, to soften her soul. And then,
with words of urgency, tinged with the sharp call of an eagle,
he seeks to quicken her sluggish pulse with stabbing need.

The silent longing in her heart wants to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

The windblown rose listens with a heavy heart
to the song sung by her love, the gnarled snail – a heart
that longed to utter the words that she had forgotten how to speak.
Instead, she withdraws with a piercing cry – she spews anew
feigned words with rapier thrust.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her sharp thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt heart.

With an agonized cry the snail turns on his beloved rose—
With gravel voice heavy with pain he says,
You only have beautiful petals my rose, mere heady perfume,
but you cruelly pierce with your sharp thorns your lover’s heart,
and your soul, where your soul should have been,
is only an empty and dark tomb—
I will seek another rose, a rose as beautiful as you,
but without your thorns – Goodbye, farewell, adieu
my windblown rose, I will no longer lay claim to your heart,
a heart as dry as the ashes of burnt cinder.
With these bitter words, slowly, the saddened snail
crawled away from his beloved rose, dragging his heavy shell
on his bent back. Leaving behind a silver trail which the windblown rose
clung to with her forlorn eyes.

The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

But she had only her rapier words to speak to him.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt soul.

-by Rita Putatunda