In the final week they still swept their floors.
the people in the village so stuck in their way,
that some, in leaving, even locked their doors
as if to hold back the dam tide -
frail wooden levees that will not hold.
They die hard: the habits of old,
and cannot be casually cast aside.
There is a nephilum here, in the leafy dark,
staking his plants and pulling out weeds,
though the distant coffer dam is broken.
As in the days of Noah and his ark,
the gardener labours in vain for vain needs,
ignoring the government prophecy spoken.
My latest poem. I wonder if anyone will be able to understand its meaning and deeper meaning.
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