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The Hour of The Sun (An ode to the oppressed)

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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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