In my garden there are no chrysanthemums,
Only thistles with sharp prickles.
When I look at their faces,
When I think of weeding them out,
When I grow excited with
The passing breeze slapping on my face,
Suddenly I see my own face
On the rounded heads of purple flowers,
And my body on their frail stems.
Poetry by Bibek
Read 149 times
Written on 2019-05-25 at 06:53
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