The Afternoon Of Harvest Poem by Tony Adah

There is something peculiar
In the air
A bumpy harvest of endowments
Heaps, sacks, barrels;
Plundering hands and laughter
Few satisfied
On the perks of monumental perfidy.

Many drag frail along famine's path
On famished stomachs
Sleeping, waking, yawning
On the straw bed of bounties
Pinioned by dearth.

Dark clouds mask
The golden flames of the rising sun
In storms of rain and
In storms of lightning
The crowd scamper
For food
For life
For tomorrow
The golden flames of the setting sun
Fades,
Polysyllabic twilight, dragging
And painful.

Perhaps the night
Which we plough our seeds
Of self realization will be shorter
Into the morning of sprouts
And the afternoon of harvest
There will be a phalanx
Of unspoken martyrs
Still all will reap
The huddled you,
And the pinioned me
Neglected and so deprived.