A poem of a little flower growing strong


That bold young flower, which grows

By the sol’s power,

And bathes in the moon glowing bright

Over the dunes, triumphs over

The weeds that the garden master

Cannot see.

And the weeds, while they sting,

While they blame, and while they bleed

Out all the nutrients, crippling

Said flower’s stead, do not

See, do not dream, do not

Relent, and with fervor vent.

However, as I see it,

The flower

Grows, and the flower shows

Off its petals, crying not

In the presence of those who

Meddle, further circumventing

All those who will not start relenting.

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One response »

  1. Excellent post! I enjoyed reading it very much.

    Poetry will never loose it’s touch even as we enter this digital age. Thanks for sharing.

    A Poem for Mothers

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