The Sad Farmer - a Rhyme Attempt

there flies a bird as white as life, an ugly, peaceful dove, which carries darkness in its beak, the poem wroth with love: the farmer wakes at morning, weak with pain and ache; there's no peace in sleeping in when mares they howl and shake; with mordant scythe and sickle, he cuts the grain in half: he sows therein the seed of death, then carves an epitaph; the farmer stops at nightbreak welcoming the dusk, he grips the seed of death with warmth, peeling on its husk; as sun sets darkly ominous, he treads his dusty path; in his palm he holds his dream, the grains he cult in half; his hut, stern, built of timber-oak, cumbersome a house; embellished with the memories of his dearly loved spouse... royal scribes and bards beloved, their hands rest comatose; for the farmer dreamt a poetry blessed with the heavens' prose; no scribe or bard can outcompare this master amongst men; for one who sees the depths of love shall never sleep again! whence shall his cup of nectar dry like menopause; how long shall grief outspan his joy, fear remain his cause? how long may life flow gutter-like with the poison of the asp, from the wound that birth cut deep but none can verily grasp? how can one not blame oneself when death knocks firm the door, carrying verdicts to the young - of pestilence and war? to life itself he has become the spiteful, bitterest foe; how can the farmer, lost from love, reclimb that high plateau? the visions overflood his soul like the great deluge; yet he shall never build an ark, however great and huge; as every day must die alone upon the cross of night, the farmer sees his truest self absconding, like a kite: a viscid hearth of soot and blood, a sorrow black as led; he sits down 'round its lonely flame, remembering why she's dead; she grabbed the knife as bow in hand, aloof in hopeless mists; she played her violin up-down, with beauty, on her wrists; imps of grief and ghosts of doubt, - by every step they taunt; how long may the spectres stay, ...how they schreech and haunt! a thousand nights, a thousand days, weary is he, old; the bitter muscle of his heart, pumping weak and cold; a final night he wept away, burdened by the guilt; a final morn' alone in here, the house which sorrow built; now weeping in his deathly throes, "my love, i'll come for you", he swallows now the poison-seed, the grain he cut in two...