• krishnasripada 5w

    I harvest moments. Each day. Every day. Some washed in the rains, that sang songs of quaint beaches and soft sands, of wet greens and green wetlands. Some stoned in dusty alleys by crowds whose wares I never bought. Some kissed by the moon, some touched by the sun. All sprawled across the fields of time I lived. And then, there were footprints, amidst the harvest. Yours.

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