yesterday i was spring,
a field unplanted,
green as new apple.
but since, i have mingled
your sweat with my soil
your metal with soft root
veins white and quiver.
you, foreign,
have plowed furrows
too deep to erase.
you, black blade,
have scraped against element
too deep for rebirth.
today, i am winter,
a barren tree,
grey as graveyard.
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