In the tea gardens where tribals stay,
the young plants just have their say.
Come winter the grass turns brown
like an old king passing his crown.
When the breeze blows thru' the trees,
tender saplings sway as they please.
With the start of springly sober March;
the hope for new buds herein lurch.
The weeds are poisoned and trampled -
wilting leaves fall and are crumbled.
What is atop is so conveniently seen -
and that in darkness lies, none is keen.
Prasenjit©2022
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