Weeds and Hyacinths
They yelled at her and spat in her face,
Messengers of turpitude threw insults,
Stripped her dignity and deprived her grace:
Well-meaning people from dubious cults.
But she neither lost faith nor confidence;
As her garden was trampled, her windows broken,
She still heard the music, the choral cadence;
Compassion, kindness facing acts of madmen.
She suffered humiliation and abuse;
When her man left her for an affluent bride
They treated her badly, as a useless refuse:
Life became a burden, a pitiful ride.
Still tender light can enter tart labyrinths,
Weeds may look nicer than fading hyacinths.
Comments about this poem (Weeds and Hyacinths by Paul Hartal )
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