In the Bazaar

In the middle
of a bazaar, I stood,
struggling to be,
to find my footing.

Amongst a crowd
that squabbled each day,
that bargained for each pay.

The ruckus ceased
when a musty scent tickled my nose,
rising above the noise.

Baffled, I searched
for the flower it belonged to—
until I saw I was standing in a bouquet
of buds of struggle,
of stems of sacrifice,
of leaves of hard work.