Do you recall your Agriculture
That not every soil is fertile for farming?

In the heat of tiny loving pleasure
She entertains your seed without attention
In the wake of a double fortnight
She steals a test kit; window screams ‘yes’
She would flee only to a foreign land
Where she shall slave till the baby comes
She traces the map on her mind’s atlas
And thinks at least to light up your darkness

In fiery fury you are shaken and loathsome
Yelling and raging and cursing
You tell her to ‘fix it, fix it’
Like it’s a homework designed for her
She sees through your fear or drama
And rues bitterly shining the touch in your tunnel
She shall flee as she promised her spirit
For an earthquake will be milder than family or friends

But while she’s gone, echo your Agriculture
How soon shall you find another fertile soil?


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