I am a field:
One on which
Beautiful flowers grow
For eyes to feed on.

The species of flowers
That grow on me
Are rare—
People who are aware
Throng in for discovery
And pluck some for close
Observations in arrears.

Not only people populate me;
Butterflies come to pollinate,
Bird come in different attires to
Chirp and merry on the flower beds,
Sun visits frequently after dawn,
Wearing a huge smile.

Suddenly, change occurred:
On a corner on me,
A lanky figure was introduced.
It plays hanky-panky in form of hide and seek
To chase unsuspecting malignant bodies off me.

From the first trumpet from the shrilling voice
Of the cock to the last one,
The scarecrow is present.
When the sun goes to sleep,
And the curtain is drawn on the world,
The scarecrow remains potent.

Birds no longer visit the flower beds;
People have been chased off me
Because they only nip the flower buds.
Scarecrow only gives chance to the sun,
“It adds to you in sums.”
And to the butterflies too,
“They are regal, your loyal friends;
They will aid your growth.”

As lanky as scarecrow is,
It blatantly scares crews that
Won’t aid growth away.

Your presence is bothersome,
But all you do is chant the border song:
We keep guiding the chick from the claws
Of death but the chick keeps sulking
About being stopped from making friends
And non-stop adventure.

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