Writers 
The Rustic Garden
Behind an aged and worn-out wall,
Where wild vines scale and shadows descend,
There is a peaceful and large garden.
Along with modest blooms blossoming side by side.
The wooden gate is cracked with age,
But each morning turns the page.
Roses bloom freely.
As butterflies dance in the air.
Tall and proud stands a mango tree,
Its branches reaching out into the cloud.
Under its shade, the grasses move,
speaking quietly all day.
The smell of the earth after the rain
Once more, it revives lost pleasures.
A tiny creek flows silently beside it.
Clouds that reflect throughout the sky.
There are old jars spread about.
Care provided to little plants.
The tree's rusty chair beneath it
A weary spirit is encouraged to sleep quietly.
From dawn to dark, the birds sing melodies,
Around the dew in the morning and the foliage.
No palace of gold could compare
There, with all the basic beauty.
The humble garden doesn't brag,
It just provides what matters most:
A location where tired spirits can unwind,
And find tranquility among the leaves.
As night paints the sky with gold,
The garden holds its ancient stories.
And when the stars start to shimmer,
Its tranquil beauty is divine.
