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My father land or so it should. Treading a farther ground, For so it soothes. Forged from fiery furnace of fury. Steers by the riches of the red boom. The heroes' past it washes fully, And the futures' precious bloom. My father land, truly. Soils breed, graves eat. Brooms and shield, they pack and bully. 'Who cares if the soils breathe'? If today hums of sorrow, What says tomorrow?

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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