Green orbs stare back at me
where lily pads used to be
ask me what the sacrifice was for.
Ask, how long before the lotus
is allowed to rip through the riverbed
and reincarnate.
Ask, if the morning has passed,
if dusk has arrived.
Ask, if now the time is right.

The season for blossom has long turned into autumn but the permafrost refuses to thaw from this heart frozen in the winter of partition.

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