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Pity for a crop...

In the lush green wheat fields
the beauty remains hidden until its ripe
From green to gold, erect to oldm cut to sold and head to told;
I'd be the last caliph of this smallest large field
water be the food for your beauty be seen
and soil be the shoes to your feet

you know; when beauty is at its peak
it's harvested, to be made someone else's beauty
and that beauty becomes someone else's charm
and charm in sight leads to the achievement
and achievement is the price that shuns the beauty
and dying beauty is like sinking sun, lamenting light, agonized ailment, distant distance and soul-less smile...

I always feared to scrutinize what i am doing now...
I'm stuck between letting you die of age or making a good harvest! ! !


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