The Fruit of Time

Ripe the fruit of time they took,
plucked clean from dripping branch.
Then by their theft the old tree shook
and bent like curling ash.

Unknown to night, the children cry;
they weep for what they wrought.
They should never have climbed so high
and stolen what’s been lost.

(to be continued…)

© 2015 Stellular Scribe

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