Weeds

The mountains are bitterly cold:
The icy winds tug at bare trees
And oaks made gray by mist appear
To reach out for spring days gone by.
The ground is frozen and the frost
Has taken a brush of dull gray
And painted the world colorless;
No ray of warmth from the pale sun
Comforts the dreamless, dreary earth
And the poet at his window.

Only one clump of nameless weeds
Wages a defiant war against this:
It sports the tiniest purple blooms,
Like stars in a darkening universe;
The entire world will have to freeze,
And ice must run through every vein
Before this patch of purple troops
Will accept the gray rule of the season.

Diptesh Ghosh