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That farm only I can harvest
Of the yield I sowed as best.


Cooing as the pleasant Dove
Pairing the fairest in love,
Airing their bond skies above.

Tasty meals will gather a hunt.
What dies before dishes are burnt?
Nobody is killed, to put it blunt.

Blinking away our sorrow,
Straying wide from the narrow;
Innocence we see is shallow.

From what is pride really safe?
Or faith, trust, love yet late?
Kith, kin, sex, race or mate?

The faith a fist, given as must
And pain it opens and thrust;
Winks in its act of lethal trust.


I aspire to be a name
Certainly not a face.
I pray that my fame
Brings me real grace.

To all alive I owe;
Those dead I may too.
For the unborn I’ve a hoe,
It is for me that I sow.


Flew your thoughts with a breeze,
With a sharp whistle and ease.
In the simple flight you all live,
Winds are harsh and rain a thief.

The woven nest tops your trees,
Eggs your chicks and roofs peace.
Living is one brief lonely courtship
That wings songs it just must keep.

So Birdie, play your own flute
Like nature does to only you.
Life leaves me in my ugly soot
And I just can not be like you.

These repertoires are just you
As I continue to thrive on my loot.
Amazed why ironically unlike you
To my endowed peers I am a mute.