A timeless dance beneath the sun,
Where petals bloom, and bees still hum.
The flowers wait, their colors bright,
To greet the wings that brush in flight.

In perfect rhythm, day by day,
Pollinators find their way,
To sip the nectar, sweet and pure,
A bond that keeps the earth secure.

But now the winds have changed their tune,
And flowers bloom too late, too soon.
The bees arrive, the butterflies call,
Yet find no blossoms there at all.

The warming air, the shifting rain,
The seasons stumble, out of lane.
And in this fragile, fleeting time,
The dance is lost, without its rhyme.

The flower waits in empty fields,
Its nectar hidden, its fragrance sealed.
The pollinator roams in vain,
As balance cracks beneath the strain.

Yet hope remains in seeds below,
If we can guide what we now know.
To mend the thread, restore the rhyme,
To bring them back in step with time.

For every wing, for every bloom,
There’s still a chance to lift the gloom,
If we protect this ancient song,
And let the dance of life grow strong.

Dr. Pratibha