A MAN ON THE ESSAY by J.T.A. Reddy

Sow the seeds of wand’rs’ lies, disguised as feed for soaring

birds to browse.

Suff’rs’ till the soil; embalm the dead; say rites to rightless fools; they

spare the weeds. 

Tell them! Gardens last beyond our spoils, and spoils will grow the men in

ways unknown, 

Know it’s not for green nor greed; palmed or gloved; perspicacious Gods, or

gardeners’ jobs. 

Titans - blood like fire for yours inspired - did clash their hands like magma,

mountains freed, 

And, upon your face, the face where wrinkles will appear to mark your saga like a

painted cave, 

Must their love refuse its goal; if only words could nature mark her toll; your marked

departure, this. 

The garden

of your soul.