Hands are full of dirt, from the middle earth,
I push them down in the mud, fingers got caught,
I tried to pull them out, but something got stuck.

Roots that reach the core, feeding through the husk.

Jurney within, where the story grows,
This uncarved stone blows.

I see the middle, always made of light,
Even if the journey is all black and white,
Through thick soil, even in the rock,
There is always something resembling a crack.

 

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