A short poem about useless toil.
Each morning we arise to rake the dirt.
Something, here must grow.
Too much imagined and too much planned,
We just can’t let it go.
We water the dirt and remove the rocks.
Vainly, search for a sign.
Just as something appears to grow, it shrivels.
Hope dies on the vine.
The sun, it coddles our seeds of hope,
Held gently in our hands.
We plant them close to where we live,
As though we own the lands.
Next day, we arise and rake the dirt.
Dust, no longer blinds our eyes.
So much devotion and so much care,
But, the dirt, no more than lies.