The garden, hoed, is done: the weeds make one last stand.
A final, feeble fight, on the periphery of the land.
Guerrillas in the rows, defiant to the last,
The docks and pigweed flourish, by the border overcast.
This first great hoeing done, a battle fiercely fought,
Against the primal forces, that Nature ever wrought.
Though Adam turned his back, on Eden's fertile ground,
My garden shall not fall, though weeds do still abound.
For though the task is finished, the victory seems to cease,
The second hoeing beckons, disturbing all my peace.
A circle round I'd travel, with never-ending toil,
Forever bound to labor, upon this yielding soil.
A fable of the ancients, of work that has no end,
To Adam Sisyphus, my weary curses send.
I dreamt of cool repose, beneath the evening's shade,
A garden neat and tidy, in slumber gently laid.
But dreams are fleeting phantoms, in this terrestrial sphere,
The garden calls for labor, and fills my soul with fear.
A final, feeble fight, on the periphery of the land.
Guerrillas in the rows, defiant to the last,
The docks and pigweed flourish, by the border overcast.
This first great hoeing done, a battle fiercely fought,
Against the primal forces, that Nature ever wrought.
Though Adam turned his back, on Eden's fertile ground,
My garden shall not fall, though weeds do still abound.
For though the task is finished, the victory seems to cease,
The second hoeing beckons, disturbing all my peace.
A circle round I'd travel, with never-ending toil,
Forever bound to labor, upon this yielding soil.
A fable of the ancients, of work that has no end,
To Adam Sisyphus, my weary curses send.
I dreamt of cool repose, beneath the evening's shade,
A garden neat and tidy, in slumber gently laid.
But dreams are fleeting phantoms, in this terrestrial sphere,
The garden calls for labor, and fills my soul with fear.