Young Native American Boy Farm boy.jpgThey call me your farm boy
I respond since we all must toil
You shove your toolbox at my chest
I catch it and dare not imagine rest
Until the day after harvest
This bird will build no nest
When you scream my name
Before the first cock crows
I will swiftly pick my spade
And welcome work as day grows
I will wipe sleep off my eyes
And with mist wet my brows
I will heed your call to wipe your boots
And to get your cutlass off the roofs.

Behind you I will walk with speed
With your heavy tools on my head
By your command I will dig the soil
Not caring if sad sweats cloud my sight
Though the sun scorches my behind
And my heart aches much even to stand
I will till till dusk arrives
And praise my soul for staying alive
From the wake of a week to its end
And the mouth of a month to its bend
I will gather your faeces
And nurse your crops through phases
I will give even my weakest strength
And invest even my frailest health
Till I am left with a few days to harvest.

You call it your harvest
But I say ‘your harvest or your regret?
Ask the fool about wisdom
And he’ll give you folly’s best definition
Till the day before harvest
I will prepare the barns for their best
All the filthy baskets will I decorate
And will clean them till night sails
Then I will sit before the moon
While you snore away in your room
My bags are packed, prepared to ride
My room is clean, empty and dry
A stranger is coming, one you’ll never know
Together we will give you what you have ever sown
On harvest’s day, we will sing our tune
Not because we are glad for you
But that our paths will never again meet
After this pleasant dreadful day.


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