Resurrection

There’s something being cooked,
There’s something in brewing.
Throwing away the torn,
There’s no more to sewing.
 
It’s time to step out,
The wind’s fast sweeping.
The wound’s drying up,
There’s no more to healing.
 
The eyes all done dripping,
To the clouds delegating.
The summer’s passing by,
The monsoon in the making.
 
Ploughing the fields of my heart,
I hear the sound of it beating.
A tiny little trail of blossoms,
Soon, soon I set to reaping.
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