Not a moment of gloomy a grimace,
Sad looking face, nor yet curt countenance,
All-knowing smirk, nor haughty arrogance,
Wonder wherefrom flowers get such good grace!
Yea, some do grow on wildly swelling weeds,
They still a unique wild fragrance far spread,
Whilst human weeds spread forth their foulest deeds;
Neighbourhood blossoms forced are to turn head.
Yet, a child's born with angel's easy grace,
But goodly grace unto grimace soon turns,
This human bud as grows to get grown face,
And this grimace gawks till childhood returns.
With grimace of a frowning unicorn,
What if one distant day a child is born?
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As buds grow into flowers their innocent fragrant charm further spreads. But a child born with a goodly grace acquires grimace as she grows. This sonnet wonders what if a child loses her natural grace.
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Sonnets | 09.02.07 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem