In the midnight hour
Grows the perfect poppy, look
Smooth, subtle, its petals
Unfolding wisdom
We must not pluck flowers
A poppy picked shall die
Foresight abandoned
Cut, she cries opium tears
Withers for man’s greed
Find the path, witness
Worry not the time it blooms
But for whom
I love how the last stanza addresses the reader. The poem recalls how poppy petals feel to the touch–silky smooth, feathery, fragile.
Thank you for your kind words.
Pingback: บอลสเต็ป
Pingback: ล่องเรือเจ้าพระยา
Pingback: car detailing