Waiting to be harvested
She lies reposed in the abyss of time,
Planted among the undulating dunes,
She waits to be harvested in might.
Afar, the withered herbs rage in fumes.
Masked beasts throng the grieving horizon,
Like thunder storming the sky asunder.
Spilling harmless blood with derision;
Every thumping gallop seeks to plunder.
Consuming viciously souls most sublime,
The draught, the inferno, the marching beast!
She stands staring at the horrors of spite;
In terror, she waits the final deed.
To sprout, she yearns to be timely planted;
Now, she is waiting to be harvested.
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