The Sower gathered his bag, went to sow––
his furrows dug long and straight in the dirt;
countless burial mounds without a stone,
bodies tenderly laid to rest in earth.
In the darkness of each tomb, death unseen
reigns, his grievous, painful scepter holds sway
until the dust returns to its own, keen
for the glorious freedom of the Day.
Up from the decaying, dusting husk shoots
an arm, desperate for air and for sun––
defying the dark lord, declaring, “Soon!
Your fearful tyranny at last be done!”
So many planted seeds to die in me,
but day by day I’m becoming more green.


What is a Shakespearean sonnet?

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