Poetry is a garden grand
Yet, at times it seems the ground is cursed,
As the trolls are the weeds infesting this good earth
When the rains come,
They greedily try to drink every drip
When the blazing heat strikes,
They give no shade but hide in between the lines
The sowers are the grand poets,
Plowing the soil with their glorious pens
And their labor does no go in vain,
For without fail the gleaners eagerly come,
Gathering the produce with joyful eyes,
Ignoring the weeds
For some weeds are not even worth pulling
Very nice tribute. And you are right! Always the moochers ready to profit from what's authentic and fine. The low fruit on the vine. Yes, the truth should be told, no matter whose involved. I admire you for this well written and justly intended poem, Thanks, Bill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
May we all press on in our endeavor to write better and better poetry and produce less and less weeds. A wise poem. my friend, but I have to admit there are an awful amount of weeds in my garden. 10