TEIKA MARIJA SMITS
Pomegranate Once, it was ripe; a chalice to a multitude of seeds, each seed a fertile ruby plump with crimson juice. Now it withers, lays untouched. Unseen. Soon, a woman will take a knife, sigh and then slice into it. She will marvel at its innards, its desiccated womb, so like her own. Glorious in its decay, it will stain her clothes purple.
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