Poem, Scenic, Short story

Toil.

With a face toward the ground to toil, the familiar sight of earth.

Of grass and weeds, half eaten seeds and grooves cut into soil.

What must this sweat nourish the fields, for why else would it come?

But to cause me to stop and drink again I find a waste of time I could use.

Oh how these fields will grow and bloom, to green from barren bare.

And to those beasts I keep for meat, how too they toil in their way.

To feed upon the grass of a field I will use again next year, to grow again crops to sow and reap, to feed throughout heat and desolate snow.

It is for me to suffer and toil, it is what must be done.

So look up to me, dear child of mine as I look down to you.

Your stature so small, to be grand one day and have little ones of your own to run around.

But for now look up, as I must look down, for while you can, you can still see to dream of the heavens.

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