Fall came as Spring,

Blooming into crimson tides,

Budding tears,

That haven’t dried,

And the castaways sprout,

Across terrestrial fields,

Until the ripe become raw.

To my people I say,

“I am from you but not of you,”

So when you called I said wait,

And from far I felt you wilt.

Too busy with life,

To water the palms that I raise.

Yes, Fall came as Spring,

And its fruits,

We now bear,

It’s fruits,

We shall bare.

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