If father is he that sits meal on table, then you are my father
For at harvest ‘tis your fingers that sites meal on my tongue
If mother is she that bathes her infant, O you are my mother
For ‘tis you that bathes me with sweat through sowing time
Ah! My field, my mother, my father, my comrade yearlong
Forgive me when I clout you with machetes and with plow
For my belly halts-not grumbling ‘twill halt my heartbeats

But soon field hated me refusing to bring a comely harvest
Sages advised I let my field rest awhile for ‘tis over-tasked
And thirsts for the honeyed hue of slumber to fall upon her
My belly grumbled, but my field failed to change its mind

Since sleep blindfolded field, I opted visit world nigh me
Rumored bliss of riches was a gossip on the world’s lips
Since belly tasted not riches I opted feed my eyes with it

So with legs swaying like grand scrotum of an aged ram
I toed to meadow of a rich man, jewels painted his wrist
His meadow was lovely as fountains at the edge of Eden
Girls with eyes bettering stars in tides they serve a gazer
Such fair girls roved it amid guitar-strings sailing the air
His field was wide and fecund as field around famed Nile
My eyes ate jealousy rather-than get fed by the eyesight

I beheld lots of fruits jammed away with thick pad-locks
By hand ignorant of toil, my spirit grew sour as old wine
For yearlong I toil yet ‘tis my belly hunger opts to visit
While still sour, I beheld noise grace the rich man’s lair
“Mine, yours” roved air as for heir-loom his sons flared
Soon the rich man’s green meadow begot deep red hue
Hue of danger my eye held as one son made his sibling
To bite dust of that rich meadow, slain as a slain beast

Owner of rich hand I saw ere came from his fair door
His blood boiled in his vein, blood-pressure slew him
At fore of his pad-lock, now manure for his meadow
My plea for wealth fled from my heart like a coward
O how wealth birth death; even the-rich are no better
Not all that shines is gold; the shine of a diving spear
Is but flash of flattery from the ancient-serpent’s lip

So I ran to my slumbering field and took few weeds
Then fed my meal of leaves in my deeply silent lair
Gold metal is rare but in marigold and golden-poppy
I had gold ample to feed my stare, dreading wealth
Awaiting my field rise to serve me fertile than ever

©Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey. 

First published by Literary Yard.
Picture courtesy pixabay.com