with sorrel and with buttercup,
with red-green stalks and petalled ruffs,
and golden faces gazing up;
we have no pride, we seek no place
beside the rose or fleur-de-lys –
content, we flourish on the ground
and feed the friendly questing bees.
Some call us weeds, but we don’t care.
Born of the earth, and of the one
whose course we track across the sky,
we are the children of the sun.
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