The Imitators

He has worked in the garden of poetry
Forty years gone.
The soil is meagre and the plants are eaten
By boars, they applaud him with grunts.

To find the roots and transplant them on a page
Or in the garden of literature, is not easy.
The gardener is famed for his genius or a charlatan
Of rose bushes.

Truth rears its ugly head, there are doubters
Who will not be silent, he knows when his plant’s
Has been purloined.
Better than not be read at all.