Daffodils

By Mohit Kumar

Daffodils, must have been dead’s favorite,

Thriving in cold announcing the spring aboard,

Little sunshine covering the green ocean,

Weeding the rots, for the angels, paving the road.

The same I think of you for all the coldness you carry,

For all the sorrow you sow budding to be Daffodils,

Upon my grave, trodden over a thousand times and still,

I am in love with the weapon of my destruction, Daffodils.

It’s not true to these yellow feathers if it’s meant to push you,

But cruel and preposterous to be laughed upon by the world to be,

To be Daffodils in one’s heart is to grow as a man I am,

And you give it springs and care just by thinking of me.

By Mohit Kumar