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Garden of Poetry

In my garden, the flowers are the words

I pluck them daily

But they keep on growing

I want my garden to be a garden of poetic works

So, I continue to toil my land

I have put a pile of experience as compost

Around them

But I yield tiny flowers

Too tiny for a mature of fifty-two

Someday, I’ll have multitudes of arces of poetry

And I wouldn’t be there to see it

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One Comment

  1. Poignant and pristine in the same breathe. Poetry will outlive us and yet in them our inner thought and lives live on in the reading of them however separated from us through time and space! Thanks for sharing.

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