Shaddock Poems

The Peasant Suspense

In his weary hour
The legumes blossom on time;
Out of jocundity in honour
Of the beautiful turf
The drowsy peasant peak.

His weird blistered palm blimey,
 His nasty regalia wretched,
 He produces plenty and eats small
 He produces good and eats bad
 To the nobles he worked, 

The dark noxious pest 
Ravage and wrest 
The peasant-shaddock 
This tonic the dressy peasant
 A nocturnal haunter.

This extempore task
 Demoralizes his sinew
 His swansong 
Rhythmically envelops
 In serenity and drone.

Each rising smoke
Nervous him to move.
This previous eyes
That know no peace
By the smiling scorching sun.

At the dark hour
He puts on his clogs
And marched to the farm shack
There he finds the beetles
On the yam.

The great anxiety of the peasant
Is the bragging fire of winter
He fasted to lull it
He became gaunt
The sturdy peasant.

The time unknown: the blazing fire 
Burnt the bedecked bower 
The ranch house and the lettuce 
Barefooted staggered him
 To the farm with his straw hat
 And met the yelling ashes 
The cracking twigs of cocoa plant 
The peasant live no day 
Longer than that and slept