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aimecaesar
Poems
Nov 2020
L'occidant
In search of greener pastures, we work tirelessly on their farms until our backs ache for a place called home.
We work the farms that do not belong to us. Deceived by the fresh produce and the beautiful work of our labour, we plough on.
From the scorching sun to the blistering winter, we plough on.
But in the end, was it worth it?
Written by
aimecaesar
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Debra in Silence
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