THE BATTLE OF WHEAT

It was early this morning,
To go into his field.
Like every good peasant,
He knew the harvest
Wouldn’t wait for it.
It was the light of day,
He had taken his gourd,
his straw hat.
He had about two acres,
To Work.
He had also sharpened his blade the day before.
Before we beat the wheat,
You had to cut it and pick it up.
He was a fake.
In a slow and ample gesture,
From right to left,
He was cutting.
Methodically, he was advancing...
We’d know he was fighting.
That he sowed death around him,
Sharp, sharp and sharp,
He continued to advance in his field,
By ten the wheat fell
The sheaves of wheat remained earth.
Soon it would be a hundred,
And then a thousand...
All of them broke...
Like a fierce warrior,
He was ruthless
By the scythe of the reaper.
So, this whole field,
To the sweat
Would be harvested.