The Field full of Weeds

There once was a story

From ancient times

Where a Wealthy Farmer

Sowed well in his farm

Best quality seedlings

On nurtured soil

Abundance of sunlight

And lots of manure

 

But malevolent enemies

In the cover of dusk

Came most despicably and

Seeded weeds in His farm

 

And the weeds prevailed

And the Farmers’ crops failed

So one by one they suffocated

The evil seed

Eliminated the rightful sprout

 

There were much more weeds

Much more each day

As the weeds did have their way

 

Until one day, at dusk also

The farmer brought his own reapers

Clad in light with sickles of fire
with one swift swing

The field blazed

It cracked and billowed with clouds of smoke

But in the inferno, the few good remaining

Astonishingly were not consumed by the flare

But were purified, like Gold by fire

And they grew up much much higher

As for the field of weeds, they turned to ash

To dust, to the dust whence they had come

Along with those who sowed the thorns

 

The field full of weeds

Eventually

Became a field of Ashes

 

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