The Gardener Poem by Amar Agarwala

Am not sure when I first saw him
Sad smile with a shovel in hand,
An ageing gardener that he seemed
His sickle a magical wand.

He worked all day between the graves
His shrubs and blooms looking their best,
Times he paused with a pensive look
But never did I see him rest.

The graveyard seemed his sanctuary
Melancholy etched deep in eyes,
He was always encompassed by
Surreal light and butterflies.

I knew not of his servitude
Till twilight of that fateful day,
Grave angels were surrounding him
When I heeded the gardener say:

I am a vassal of the Lord
I am the messiah of death,
My errand is to gather souls
And ensemble their fading breath.

I stay here in this tranquil yard
A haven for the dead to sleep,
Ironic am a farmer sad
With the richest harvest to keep.

I endeavour to fertilize
Wearied souls impoverished and worn,
Am mistaken for a reaper
Cultivating a yard forlorn.

Been told to harvest wearied souls
And put them in heavenly care,
That they be rejuvenated
From exhaustion and life-long wear.

In Eden they are sown with light
And with pints of eternal love,
That they be once more transplanted
To the earth from heavens above.

I reinstate the fragrance sweet
Of blossoms which shrivel and die,
Reap and sow with motherly care
To ensure they happily lie.

Despite my somber gruelling task
Am granted no thankful respite,
Heralded a gofer from hell
Accentuating mortal plight.

Behold my macabre role-play
This morbid existence of mine,
I wonder who will set me free
From the manacles of divine.

Then I re-learnt reality -
Of the gardener tending my grave,
'Twas death himself masquerading
With magnificent travails brave.
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