Toiling, tilling and digging with spud
In search of a meal, be it in the Earth
Our labour; hard, prolonged yet dud
Though wielding, not yielding; we are in dearth.
Our eyes are burnt and shedding blood
From begging the silent sky for a bud
One; plenty in harvest as we unearth
To fill our barns, our barns for afterbirth
Is our soul evil as a dark mud
That inflicts a loud pain of groaning Earth?
Or our soil as eerie as a scud
That scares the birds to lay or berth?
Our hands are dirty, we soiled our spud
The land has eaten up our bud
Even as it is buried in Earth to birth
Our hope for harvest will be a stillbirth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The prospect of facing a failure or despondency is entailed in human life, or life itself of all beings. This exemplifies it. A lovely piece.