Poor Farmer

Poor Farmer

The broad and clear sky under which he toils so simply:
He toils in the field with jealous and weary care,
by pushing the stubborn clay with the plow,
and dreaming of a better day to bring.

His hands in cracks, his head holds a curve;
Each seed that he sows sends another prayer.
Rain, the sun, he cannot command,
but he works this land with all his strength.

The crop can fail, and the rising debt
will not shatter his bright hope.
Each furrow, each sown stone,
held a dream for himself to own.

Riches stashed away at a distance will do little to teach life;
They speak of sweat-and-soil making a strong heart,
and hope bearing through the whole year long.