The Night of Harvest
thunder said, 'the end is near,|
i'm driving rain unto your land.'
our drought has taken all my crops,
the plow's destroyed my hand.
i answered back, 'too late for rain,
those fields have nothing else to reap.
my wife is dead, the children ill.
your rain cannot subdue this heat.'
an echo from across the ridge,
a din arises from in the hills.
there a mist expands and moves,
towards my house and dusty fields.
a darkness now, what once was sun,
'oh, sweet oppression no more!'
then, a voice, 'you bear the plow,
i bear the sickle and leave you poor.'
i fell to the floor as it spoke,
such authority solemn, yet so reserved.
i took my chest full of air,
the voice of God has man now heard.
within the walls of wooden beams,
my girl, myself and son,
met the reaper instead of rain,
and our eternal drought's begun.
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