The itching truths are ignored

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poets wrote volumes

About flowers and blossoms

But were mute in their praise

For fruits and seeds,

Which give more charm.

Poets wrote reams

About the spring and its warmth

But did rare in their concern

For the summer and its dampness,

Which touches deeper senses.

Poets wrote tonnes

About the beauties of spinsters

But were silent to picture

Beauties of wives and mothers,

Who display more lustre.

They dare not write the real

That are itching to readers

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