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Poking
its head above the surface
of the hard-packed earth,
it looks up, and struggles to find its way
into the warmth of the sun;
A thin fragile shoot, barely visible now,
it will one day be the envy of all.
The world
is cruel,
as it is beaten by rain,
scorched by sun,
one moment dry, parched,
another, cold; barely surviving.
The vine
becomes old and gnarled,
its bounty small and unassuming.
But men will come and
pick from its branches.
The flesh of its being,
(crushed and bleeding),
will become the nectar of the gods.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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