The Sons And Daughters Of Farmers Poem by RIC BASTASA

when we were children
in that poor village
while our parents work
so hard in the fields
for food (and not for
our education) we learn
to count the hours,
to measure the length
of sticks, and entertain
ourselves with our own
games.

We were dirty,
and left alone to feed
ourselves.

we were so happy then
that for that time
we were not beaten.

That
our fame was measured by
the number of our scars
and bruises
our fall from trees
our stumbles on
stones,
our skin rashes
and insect bites
how we destroy the
kingdom of bees
and how we run as fast
as we can
to avoid being
stung.

we were so happy then
that we were not boxed
that once upon a time
we thought
on our own thoughts
freely
without codes
and orders from
our present
masters....