It used to be never without sugar.
No cup, nothing poured when cane sap bereft.
Yet seasons parade the eclispe of light,
The sun outshined by dim recollections.
Sweetened, and the spills cavort with the ants.
I try, courting the red critters away,
Yet fangs plunge like vampires on virgin skin,
The man hostaged by cruel intentions.
I do not now risk blood and peace for taste.
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