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COMING



Breaking out of the nine-odd seasons of immersion, with no tweed
It traverses the uterine terrain of creamy crimson fluid
Squashing through the bone-walled gate of periodic liquid
It announces its coming with a shrilly thrilling cry –
Oh, my! So cute, so fresh, so fragile, so fry.


Lit faces soon seen streaming in in cheering shifts
welcoming it with cheery lifts and gifts
to humans’ inhumane dwelling place.

Such is the coming; the ritual and the grace

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