Grief

Quite germane, the roots here. 

You could plant a thing,

And then starve it out of ignorance, 

And still it would grapple, 

Making the most of the atmosphere, 

And the mounted bolts and clouds, 

To lumber upwards, 

And fecundate itself through strife, 

Half the willingness to do so, 

Made of solid bricks full of spite. 

Pull close the curtains, 

And never let it see the sky, 

Sit down and watch with surprise, 

How, still, the wilful root, 

Reaches longingly towards the sun. 

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