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There is no land with fields so broad,
So strewn in auric grandeur such
Upon its heads alfalfa sprouts
Appealing to the heavens much,
Or lofty ‘neath the pregnant beds
That air may dare a tender touch
So once a jaded vermin said:
Be fleeting wary bygones hushed!

Some seek this set for cometh kin
In lands abroad without the sun
Or flora for the naught of rain
And earthen sheets where rivers run –
But make the muck their own alcove
To sew their seeds by their blazon
Thus leavening their low abodes
So later they may put maize in.

Written on 21 February 2006.