Rolph David
Silent Harvest: A Gong Farmer's Lament
In the gleam of the moon's faint glow,I toil beneath the stars' soft show,
A gong farmer, despised, yet I go,
Through the mire and stench, to and fro.
Up to my knees, my waist, my neck,
In ordure's grasp, I earn my check,
By night's dark cloak, I silently trek,
To cleanse the filth, without a speck.
Paid well, they say, yet who would know,
The toll it takes, this wretched show,
Young boys lifting buckets in tow,
In darkness deep, where foul winds blow.
The waste I haul, in barrels deep,
Through narrow lanes, where shadows creep,
Unwanted infants, in heaps, do sleep,
Among the refuse, secrets to keep.
On the river's edge, the waste I fling,
To fields and gardens, this vile thing,
Mount Pleasant's mound, where cesspits cling,
My burden heavy, my heart does sing.
But woe to those who dare defy,
The laws that govern waste awry,
A public display, for all to spy,
A warning stark, lest others try.
In pits devoid of light and air,
I brave the stench, beyond compare,
My body weary, beyond repair,
In the depths of filth, I despair.
Richard the Raker, his fate foretold,
In cesspits deep, where darkness takes its hold.
A tragic end, in muck and mold,
A gong farmer's fate, forever cold.
Though paid in coin, my worth unseen,
In filth and mire, I intervene,
A thankless task, where few convene,
A gong farmer, silent, in moonlit sheen.
Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Rolph David.
Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 09.02.2024.
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