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The Hour of The Sun (An ode to the oppressed)
Sheds the sheaves of his uncles grain,
In a place long forgotten, an era long defamed
His work commences early, under the fetal sky
But he pauses everyday, to watch the new dawn arise.
Eager and quizzical, but his earnings are weak
A building force looms inside him,
He is destined to seek
Day by day, he labors craftily, without distress
A monotony transpires,
His life equable, at best
Living by the sun, the only entity he knows
Wandering Wandering Wandering
and still there is so much unknown
Accelerating, the jet takes off, in search of significance despite its own relevance
Leaving the land of plowing, uncles and aunts in a fog
He awakens at dusk amongst the birches by the farm
Recollecting nothing, and yet morning seems so far
A ryhthm sets in, as he waltz's amongst the stars,
Always admidst the clouds
For dawn is to come,
His only solace being within,
The hour, of the sun.
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