Gervic's Poetic Explorations

The Farmer's Beg

Hands that tamed the earth, now etched in lines,
A sun-kissed canvas where the years decline.
Muscles, once like cables, strain and sigh,
Aching bones that yearn to rest and lie.

Eyes that saw the dawn's first golden gleam,
Now veiled by dust, a fading, faded dream.
The world, a fabric of blurred hues,
Yet in his heart, a vibrant purpose brews.

Time, a thief that steals the sands away,
His life, a whispered prayer, "Let me stay.
For fields untamed, for fruits still on the vine,
For hungry mouths that wait for bread and wine."

He begs no alms, no pity's hollow chime,
But toil's reward, the harvest's rightful time.
His weathered hands, a conduit of the sun,
To feed the world, until his work is done.

So let him glean the bounty of his sweat,
Until the twilight paints the sky with jet.
For in his sacrifice, a truth is sown,
The farmer's soul, a harvest for its own.