Art of Cimeries

Long ago six feet over,
There lived a man of clover.
Not three nor four. Just one.
And odd like the fate that shone.

One leaf that held his hope.
One leaf that left him a rope.

Lived in peace, but not for long.
Held his tongue, but not for long.

Said one word.
No longer heard.

When the last dirt hit his grave,
They took note the words of brave.
What they scorned in seconds.
Legacy of hope beckons.



Poem By Sanjeev 'Cimeries' Retnasingam