to all things that bear fruit

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the summers where we roved the purple fields of bloomed herbs under balmy suns,
basking with pounding hearts and toothy smiles in an indigo fancy,
stripping thyme off its bony branch.

the dusky evenings where we plucked maroon plums from saplings birthed of fertile lands;
so much strength in our insatiable grasp, reaping the fruits of someone else's labor,
their syrupy juice sticky on our hands.

the nights where we sang songs of wistful sentiments with feet grazed by tawny sands,
dancing under the million-eyed stars, drunk on their argent brilliance,
composing tessellations out of sea-glass.

that was when existence seemed purely a figment of a poet's idyllic reverie
and us her fanciful lyric effigies;

the gleeful culmination of her swan song where former devastation evaporates like water into cloud
and falls in droplets of solace, dispersing it all around.

where no "alas" demolishes our blithe ending with its subsequent depredation;
only serendipity enters the final verse, followed by our divine ascension.

where no "alas" demolishes our blithe ending with its subsequent depredation;only serendipity enters the final verse, followed by our divine ascension

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