Tired Earth

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Cradled in the night: sleeping earth.
The stars, solitary eyes, observing the birth.
One too many times; everyday she
Tries to hold this sleep and be,
Eternally cold.
Her soul, old,
Wearily gives birth to season after season,
Knowing they’ll soon be ancient, a reason,
An excuse to hate the life-giving spring.
The snow, her blanket. The Sun and Moon now sing.
This: before birth her last sleep.
The joy she’ll feel in summer,
Will rend all her fear asunder.
But every year it’s the snow that she prays to keep.

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