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( average: 4.33 / 5)

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Seed or Plain

In loam or clay or the mud
Under season, underplay
I’m a bud, I’m the bud
Sneezing, squeezing, germinating
Poking through my shell when waiting
Blue society, greenish rains
Overruled domains
I flutter, fly, frown
I fly away again
My winged existence is blown
Let freedom be my claim
I’m a germinating seed
Maple in a wrong plain.
Neither seed nor a claim
You, my lady, are a chain
Chain of sprinkles, twinkles, cycles
You are a chain of particles
The land, the field, a miracle
Sweeping slowly turning slowly
Smiling and deserving slowly
New auricles and ventricles
Not only bud but many buds
Who ripen up in your heart
Making backs, taking naps
Turning into maps and sages
And juicing out words and wages
Dripping down languages

You are round, not in pain
Neither seed nor a claim
Aye lady! the finest plain.

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( average: 4.33 / 5)

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