The golden champa in the corner of our garden,
Asks for no praise, seeks no pardon.
It blooms in the silence of the early dawn,
Before the sleepers stir, or the curtains are drawn.
Its fragrance drifts to the balconies above,
A gentle reminder of nature's pure love.
Amidst the concrete and the steel so cold,
It spills its treasure of fragrant gold.
We are like these flowers, in this garden of ours,
Blooming together through the sun and the showers.
Different in color, yet rooted in one,
Reaching our heights towards the same bright sun.
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