Your face is a puzzle
oh how I could stare at it
at you for hours
and those hours I'd never want back.

Your body is a wasteland
all the time I've spent
adding to it my hope
and now that time I want back.

And I want for those hopes
to blossom in yourself
and yield to me a harvest of you,
but the fields aren't mine.

The crops grow withered
by intuition, but exhausted hopes
and finally seeing the pitiful harvest
o, I wish that your land was never cleared.

by Michael Ardizzone

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