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Showing posts from September, 2019

'NEATH THE HILLS / ARATOREM

In the wee hours does he wake daily,               weary and dazed – under woodsmoke haze
To the eerie howls of jackals,                            he strolls And visits yonder fields of paddy,                     with a sickle in hand – frail and tanned To reap the crop ‘neath the hills of Maikal.

Enshrined by the cragged silhouettes,              old and somber – by the flicker of ember Under darkest sky with a tinge of blue,             he feels His hands hack the wetted spikelets,                cold and thin – cracks on skin As dawn breaks to clear the hue.
The rustling ears fall to the moist earth,          every grain godsent – on a lifetime spent And he gathers the golden seeds,                     he prays This is wealth that for him is worth,                 for the future – of nature and nurture For it is all his family needs.
His day ends with a mountain of tasks,           countlessly weighted – earnestly devoted ‘Til the Maikal shadows mask                          he hears As the t…