Poetic-Verses
THE HARVESTERS
How life has solved itself - a puzzle.
Coming down with axe to beat God?
Blessed feet of yours on sure ground.
Kill-Gods, kill-goods, kill-joys, kill-all -
Kill no more as thoughts are broader.
Killing is just that - that your practice.
Well, it is God's farm, do a little,
Leave for some others to manage
Work is thru; 's the audit hour
Too, the fruits will soon be ready
We will harvest all we planted
Golden apples, rotten mangoes.
Let the grim reapers but pluck each
Harvestlets, bearing their weapons
God but calls - the time is over.
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THE HARVESTERS
THE HARVESTERS