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Harvester Of Sorrow
by DW Stevenson

Look upon this fallow field
Now in dormant solitude
Where once a lovely garden grew
Lush in verdant plenitude

Vast the bounty of its yield
With fertile seed and soil
Bathed in golden sunlight which
Required no care nor toil

Pointless follie to undertake
Husbandry of this stark wasteland
Skeletal fingers grasp the scythe
To reap the blight of sterile sand

I would that I could once more fill
From the larder of yesterday borrow
A horn of plenty rather than
Become the harvester of sorrow

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