the poem of the hopeless farmer

the farmer wakes at morning,
     weak with pain and ache;
there's no peace in sleeping in
     when mares will howl and shake;
with mordant scythe and sickle,
     he cuts in half his grain:
he sows therein a seed of death,
     esoteric as arcane;
the farmer stops at nightbreak
     in welcome of the dusk;
he grips his seed of death with warmth,
     while peeling on its husk...
whence shall his cup of nectar 
     dry like menopause;
how long shall grief outspan his joy,
     fear remain his cause?

 in his palm he holds his dream,
     the grains he cult in half;
 and as sun sets darkly ominous,
     back home he walks a path
embellished with the memories
      of his dearly loved spouse,
 to his hut built stern of timber-oak,
      cumbersome a house;
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...

no scribe or bard can outcompare
     this master amongst men;
for one who sees the depths of love
     shall never love again!
philosopher and sage beloved,
     their tongues rest comatose;
for the farmer dreamt a poetry
     blessed with heavens' prose;
the visions overflood his soul
     like the great deluge;
yet he shall never build an ark,
    however great and huge;
for, as every day must die alone
   upon the cross of night,
the farmer sees his truest self
    absconding, like a kite:

 a bird took off, as white as clouds,
    an ugly, peaceful dove...
 which carried all life in its beak,
     a poem wroth with love:
 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;
     calamities to the poor;
to life itself he has become
    the spiteful, bitterest foe;
now, how can the farmer, lost from love,
     reclimb that high plateau?

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:
a knight of faith sobs silently:
    "now i'll come for you";
he swallowed then the poison-seed,
     the grain he cut in two.