Tuesday, 31 October 2017


The field's green is ruined;
Some peasant has carved
Its surface - now,
After some harrowing,
There will be growth.

Stench of ordure
Offends the nostrils - the peasant
Has used his ox - now,
After the winter, is
A fertile promise.

The crop falls,
Row by row; the peasant
Garners from the ruin - not
Just a winters bread:
Next year's seed too.

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