Amidst the rich restless land my home lies
Three women wander in beatific ryes.
They keep the country in boundless vigor
Awaking their babes with ease and trigger.
They bear not vices of forbidden fruits,
But bathe the beauty of nurturing roots.
They call upon the buds to come and bloom,
Leave the comfort of their expired womb.
The decay of dirt settles in keen wake
Waiting for a new time and a new sake.
Shake! Kick! Beat! Defile!
Alarmed, dust slowly rises from its bed,
But falls to lasting rest as ash instead.
Baffled and beaten, these blades of grass rust,
Blown from their home with each unnatural gust.
The ripples of roused ponds no more flutter,
Stagnate, foul in the guts of the gutter.
They watch as their fields wither to ember,
And weep because no one will remember.
These matchless women three no more wander,
But lie midst my home that grows no fonder.
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