Can anything flare in the future
That was not seeded in the past
When I look back at the field I've plowed
I see the furrows in my forehead
And what I thought weeds gone wild
The fall has turned them all to gold
It turns out time is the abyss
Out of which is cut our own
Little space to work things out in
To ruin and redeem ourselves
Like any good arable land
And then lie idle for many years
We behold them all over the world
Empty grassy fields
Pregnant with us and yearning
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