across the blades of harvest
across the cobwebs with knots
improper dreams wrinkle childhood

still, the seeds are too young to fight
still, the guilty feel no remorse
the war in the soil

without any cries
without any touch the cradles are left behind
only innocence grows the conception

a silhouette of the eyes
a silhouette of the rainbows
pain of wisdom in dust

within each broken branch . . .
within each fallen petal
rainbow-colored hope.
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