fields of saffron

the sun and the cracked ground are the same hazy shade of yellowish brown

she stands in the sweltering heat wrapped from head to toe walking down tight rows

she plucks the vivid purple flowers with tossing them into the ever filling basket

the wind is a blast furnace pressing the loose fabrics tightly against her crouching form

her knees ache as the dust stings her eyes yet her nimble fingers move mindlessly

the beauty lost in the repetition of motion as the purple buries the strands of crimson inside

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