Handmaiden, bare my burden.
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Even as you do, you give birth and
Bring life to my new sorrow.
I am no longer nectar.
I have soured in this old wineskin; I am vinegar, while you are still sweet wine.
You will be my vineyard, my proxy.
The day laborer will come to you as the second sun casts little light on your fields and hills.
The groundskeeper, the husbandman, will exercise sweet toil,
and pour out his seed bag into fertile earth.
As we all fall, he plants in Fall and we wait for seasons to change.
Spring. Spring forth. Give life.
Unload your burden my proxy,
And give life to my new sorrow.
I wish that I could take it upon my knees and
Present it as my own harvest, but I cannot;
Ur is not Egypt –
Time moves only forward,
And my pain advances,
Even as my body is in decline.
(Whatever you think about the writing, whatever you do, PLEASE take the time to comment. I'm looking for constructive critism; blocks upon which I can build. THANKS!!! rajengineer)