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  • Digging holes with a spoon to find fire,
    I hoped the land would be plowed and softer.
    Sweeping gold and diamonds off the floor,
    I hoped I could find less shiny, more profound, more and more.

    This land has been cultivated, but was it ever fertile?
    I have no proof, I don't know, I'm not sure.
    I kept digging every night with the spoon,
    Tired, and almost blinded, under the moon.

    I have nothing more, just my old silverware,
    My tears, my love and my strongest desire;
    This land, that I know, is a groundwater,
    I swear with the days it becomes tougher and drier.

    This clay I acquired is not a property,
    Everyday I burry in it love and emotional value.
    I promise to the land an everyday loyalty,
    I will plant Amaranth in its heart, endlessly.
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