Harvest

Harvest, By Edward Stewart Cahoon I worked in the fields today, reaping the crop that others had sown. And because of the work I’ve done today Someone in grief and anguish will moan For loss of brother, lover or son. For I work in the battlefield and I’m reaping the crop that hate has sown. I get a most excellent yield of blood, guts and bones With symphony of screams and moans. How many dreams and lives have I reaped In reaping this crop in bitterness sown; What burdens of sorrow have I heaped On heart and shoulders not my own? Surely many will mourn! I did right well today in the fields. Worked right well and with a will. ‘Twill be an exceptionally heavy yield. A tribute to a reaper’s skill. Odd how they lie so still! See this one lying here on his back, Hands on chest as in repose, an excellent specimen, Tho’ he lacks a leg and some guts, an eye and a nose. Someone will cry for him I suppose. Who are they that sowed these fields? Surely they are known. They may well be proud of the excellent yields And happy to hear the groans Now stilled as Earth devours the bones. Death works no more with me in the fields. (He was my only helper you know) Crosses now are the only yields The crop likes just below. They tell me ‘twas worth it, but do they know? ‘Twas an awful price we paid in the fields, for they had a bountiful harvest, too. And now that the fate of millions is sealed, Can you tell me why it was so? Why, oh why? Does anyone know?