Sprout

The thorned earth could not
hold you down.
Even after, from your tears,
it called blood and exasperation.

You rose, though it’s teeth;
a curly flower, doing the dance
of [beautiful] existence.
The sun, you called down
so the streams; those of tears
and agony,
may be dried up.

Now the petals, those
tucked above the rocks,
hanging on your morning smile,
have learnt to sing.

They call the new sprout;
those novel in the ways of love
to blossom. This is
your morning.

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