The Irony Of The Body’s Gardener. Poem by Subrata Ray

Hey body’s gardener,
Your garden remains barren.,
And stands bare the mother plant,
It recedes to a vanishing shadow,
And the feasts the parasites share!
Present unbridled impulses there.

In wild green,
Your shrine,
Faces creepers and herbs,
Oblivious are you of your being,
And the temptations’, fruit you serve.

Greed, illusion, lust, and ego,
Are the multicolored flowers of your farm,
With seeming irony they cast enamoring charms,
Mortal pleasure, they rear, and entrap you in harm.

As a foolish blind,
You sail wind,
And take pride of your forbidden fruits,
Your garden it self was immortal, and divine was the root!