Every now and then,
September lays its golden egg
On an oven whose ash
Has twice seen the sunrise;
Its reserved down pour
Is blamed for the ugly world
Covered by grasses and shrubs
That preceded its very existence.
September holds a kingly sigh
Against all wrangles, all odds;
September bears no pride as July -
Whose loosed rectum betrays it
To uncontrollable down pour,
Nor is it as miserable as December
Tormented by the harsh harmattan:
Tongue - thirsty and charred to numbness -
Rolled inward in search of eternal dew.
O September's beauty sails in solitude.
But September can't deny its weakness
In rectitude; a state of indifference -
Not completely for the rains
Yet refraining from dryness;
What has compelled the birds
To sing half-sunk in confusion:
Hear me, September! We're lost,
Where do you belong?
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