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  Iryna Hall

Published on: 5/7/2015

Every spring I'm in love like in heat.
I am brushing my hair in my dungeon.
As I throw down my locks, I am plunging
Mortal men in the dust of my feet.

Every spring I inhale and conceive.
I am found with a heavenly belly,
And the round of my form must be telling
That I've got the whole world up my sleeve.

Every spring I am bursting with birth.
In my screams I'm deciphering summer.
And my nurse is a grumpy old farmer
With his hands in the womb of the earth.

Every spring I create, and begin
With reflecting my beauty in puddles.
I'm the owner, the queen, and the goddess
Of the sown, and the fresh, and the green.

Published on: 5/5/2015

I've lived and died. I'm asking God
Where's truth, but denser
Than human mind is clear mud
Inside his answer.

But something whispers, weak and faint:
In retrospect, if
The truth can ever be obtained,
It is subjective.

We all are blind, or mute, or deaf,
And whether bleak, or
Hot and bright, the truth is left
Up to the seeker.

Published on: 5/21/2015

When stars are tainted,
When skies are shallow,
When grass is yellow,
I green it— paint it,
I plow through Cosmos
And make it bigger.
I am a digger,
A painter, almost
An addict dreamer,
A sower-reaper.
My sky is deeper,
My side is greener.

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