The Garden

When lilies and roses spread their Wings like sparrows the old sunflowers Turn their heads towards the sun; Pigeons coo inside their cotes Like a shepherd playing its flute And a bumblebee weeping in seclusion Serrated leaves of the aged trees Fall on the ground to make a bed For retired men to lay and snore Their sticks with serpent heads keep A watch on them Sun goes down like a bloody eye Sparrows shed plumes over wrinkled faces Pigeon stop cooing Bony feet are pricked by blades of grasses Dusk is reflected in their small faces