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By Ashish Priyadarshi

Must shall I pluck the weeds

off my garden apace.

I owe them no mercy,

sure shall they bring disgrace.

Steady shall I stand,

to guard the crumbling fence.

Sweat shall I drain,

to quench the parching land.

Skin shall I burn,

to shadow the maturing buds.

Must shall I let them rot,

make them serve manure.

Then shall I rest,

when blossoms my labour.

By Ashish Priyadarshi

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