Harvest

Death is the upshot of a terrible year,
It sings of fruit at first, but then descends into doubt,
Like a ghastly crop and miserable phase;
Enter a field of vegetables for the purpose of peace
Not for exacting punishment on the crops;
Exit the pastureland on your own, and with another year
So that exercise has been unwavering
Like the harvest of a whole year.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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