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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #1740699
Wrote this after thinking of farmers and their relationship to the land.
There was a time when I felt the ground with my hands,
and the dark earth coated them with bits of itself.
I was a toiler of the land,
a child of the field.
It’s pains were mine,
it’s joys mine.
When it cried,
tears ran down my cheeks.
Now, when I am bent with age,
my hands still crave the soil.
I pray God will open a crack,
just a sliver big enough for an old man to wriggle through.
There I will sleep.
I will draw warmth from the core of the earth.
I will outstretch my arms,
and like thick roots my fingers will suck up the rain.
There I will stay.
My body will break down,
and become food for the mighty oaks, and poplar trees.
Till there is nothing left but dust.
For from the dust I came, and dust I will be again.
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