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 |    A book to house all my Poetic Explorations |
The Farmer's Beg Through years of pounding fields Tendons withered, sinews weakened Wrinkles lined scorched complexion His temple no longer resisted Painful beatings of fervid rays Dimmed beneath his tousled gray Visions faded, sights blurred Both lost their lustrous glow A million dust stained, rusted The windows of his soul 'Til when he would live? Time's fleeting, days hastily passing To rest - his utmost fright Few more days he begged To finish what left undone. None would harrow those unploughed Fruits unpicked, wheat unmowed None would care to harvest Live more days, yield To feed gazillion starves The Farmer's Plea, Rewrite Sun-scarred hands, once tools of might, Now tremble with twilight's light. Furrows etched upon his face, Tell tales of hardship's harsh embrace. Eyes, once bright as fields of gold, Dimmed with dust, their stories fold. The weight of years, a weary load, Bends his back upon the road. Yet, a fire flickers in his gaze, A whisper through life's fading haze. "Let me hold on, just a while," A farmer's plea, etched in a furrowed smile. Unplowed furrows plead for rain, Ripe fruit hangs, heavy with strain. No hand to reap, no harvest song, But in his heart, the harvest's strong. "For lives that hunger, let me sow," His voice, a seed that yearns to grow. "Few more days, to till and glean, A final yield, their solace keen." So let him bend, let furrows spread, A testament to toil, not dread. In weathered hands, hope finds its home, The farmer's plea, a gift for all to come. The Farmer's Song of Harvest, Rewrite Hands that tamed the earth, now etched in lines, A sun-kissed canvas where the years decline. Muscles, once like cables, strain and sigh, Aching bones that yearn to rest and lie. Eyes that saw the dawn's first golden gleam, Now veiled by dust, a fading, faded dream. The world, a fabric of blurred hues, Yet in his heart, a vibrant purpose brews. Time, a thief that steals the sands away, His life, a whispered prayer, "Let me stay. For fields untamed, for fruits still on the vine, For hungry mouths that wait for bread and wine." He begs no alms, no pity's hollow chime, But toil's reward, the harvest's rightful time. His weathered hands, a conduit of the sun, To feed the world, until his work is done. So let him glean the bounty of his sweat, Until the twilight paints the sky with jet. For in his sacrifice, a truth is sown, The farmer's soul, a harvest for its own. |
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