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Perch Your Tears, Clouds.

My land is ready for its harvest,
Perch ferociously in our soul.
Melt the crust of the earth,
And grant us the strength to fill our baskets.
With the ceaseless toil of my people, the land shall yield.
Mightly, with great multitudes, its bowels are filled.
Perch ferociously in our soul.
Melt the crust of the earth,
And grant us the strength to fill our bowls.
We whetted our tools with sweat,
The whetstone broke its jaws for our stomachs.
We delighted in farmsteads and abandoned our homes,
Our skins prayed us to placate the aggrieved insects.
Perch ferociously in our soul.
Melt the crust of the earth,
And grant us the strength to fill our barns.
To labour our hearts are sold,
To man the babes of our homes.
The maidens' breasts are not aged to fold,
But to quell the hunger of our young men in search for loam.
Perch tenaciously in our spirit.
Moisten the crust of the earth,
And grant us the strength to fill our basins.
The seedlings are drying,
The set of crops are dying.
Stems seek for roots and nutrients leach,
Perch vigorously on our land.
Ease the crust of the earth,
And grant us the strength to fill our granaries
Weary are we of weeds,
Their endless greed sucks our plants' feed,
Oh, perch mightily in our hearts!
Break the crust of the earth,
And give us the strength to fill our bosom.
My land is ready for its harvest,
Perch ferociously in our soul.
Melt the crust of the earth,
And grant us the strength to fill our baskets.
Perch your tears, clouds.

Submitted: Friday, November 29, 2013
Edited: Saturday, November 30, 2013


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Comments about this poem (Withered Flower by Desmond Okon )

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  • Christiana Adibeli (11/30/2013 1:02:00 AM)

    Wat a nyc poem
    U r gonna b 1 of d nation's best
    Kip it up

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