moon. burrow. vintage.

art movement: Fruit Crate

Seasons pass, the fruit ripens, and man finds his home.
The juice runs down their lips and they can hear a smile
greet the setting sun; time to settle in for the night,
lie beneath the tree as the last remaining light fades,
so to do the wants of today; the work is done,
a minor winter's rest is all we look forward to next

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