Albatross
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    • May 5, 2023
    • 1 min read

Albatross

By Ashish Priyadarshi


Must shall I pluck the weeds

off my garden apace.

I owe them no mercy,

sure shall they bring disgrace.


Steady shall I stand,

to guard the crumbling fence.





Sweat shall I drain,

to quench the parching land.


Skin shall I burn,

to shadow the maturing buds.


Must shall I let them rot,

make them serve manure.

Then shall I rest,

when blossoms my labour.


By Ashish Priyadarshi




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