Sunday, 20 February 2011

Sudor Vultus

this world, fragile underfoot,
pungent and precocious, wild,
yields its rich fruits to our arms,
to our silver slicing blades

but we pay with our water, dripping
from the brows, everlasting testament
that beauty comes not without pain,
and thorns grow amidst the fruit

we pierce you, earth, and you pierce us,
you nourish even as you afflict,
you are bound to us, but we are not bound to you,
and you, servant, will be remade.

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