Fredoon Kabraji is one of those Parsi practitioners of Indian English verse from Gujarat who wrote in their own ways just to be called the poets of their own right, but the verses which but came to tumbling down without any schooling or proper training struck the chords of the heart otherwise to appreciate and admire in our way even though by shifting to England. We are really appalled to put it down that to whom will it come merit none can say it about. The other problem in reading him is this that his poems are not easily accessible. Son of an Indian civil servant, he left for England, wanted to do a degree which but could not clear it, but whatever be that journalism creativity and poetry-writing went in together with as for his drift and digression. He married there. There is possibly more to be told about him, but we do not know it. Kabraji settled in England and his poems found the press too.

Tulips, tell me, what it the secret of your splendor? Why are you so lovely and charming? What it the reason for your captivating, ravishing beauty? Why is your cup so finely designed? It is really beautiful to see the tulips blooming, captivating and charming the on-lookers. The tulip holds in its cup the magic which keeps drawing the lookers closer. The soul too appears to be craving for. The secret and mystery none can tell it if the mother tells it not. She too cannot as the Unknown Hand has chiseled and crafted it. Had it not been magical and charming, it would not have been the subject of musicals. Beauty reflects it art and in art is beauty. Thoughts come pertaining to beauty. Aesthetic beauty is also important. The poem reminds me of, Beauty is truth, truth beauty. Like mother, like daughter. The tulip is a fair creation of Nature. The garden of Nature is full of dreamy flowers which are for to see with love and to feel it. Inner beauty is to be felt in the heart. But who is it who has made the flower so beautiful and dreamy? Who as per his fancy and imagination?

Tulip, tell me, what do you hold in your cup?
I hold in my cup the magic that swells the thirst of your soul,
O Mother, when you look on the form of your child;
the opiate that fills your dream,
Mother, with the awe of the Unknown!
But, Tulip, tell me, why do you guard your magic beyond the wing of melody?
Because, ere Thought was,
a kiss of Love did capture Death in the Seed of Life.
That is why no melody of Life can hold all the magic in my cup,
Mother; that is why Love cannot hold your child in Life alone!

—  Fredoon Kabraji, "Tulip"