PROSPERO: […] this gallant which thou see'st / Was in the wrack; and but he's something stain'd / with grief,—that beauty's canker,—thou mightst call him / A goodly person […]
There's no use trying to tell him; he won't listen.
As a woman of color living in the north of Metropole, anything that I did dig up I really had to scrunt for.
The birds perch on the sorghum heads and try to eat them but the dry seed falls to the ground. The birds can only peck it out of the sorghum head when it is still milky and green.
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