The Fields of Solitude
In dawn’s stillness, where shadows play,
A solitary farmer plows through the day.
Alone he toils, his fields his home,
Where whispers of his neighbors’ malice roam.
Their laughter echoes, a distant din,
As he works, his blood begins to thin.
For though he sows with love and care,
Their envy and spite are hard to bear.
The sun dips low. The day grows old,
The farmer’s thoughts become very cold.
He dreams of peace, of quiet rest,
But neighbors’ noise outdoes him the best.
He rises with the dawn’s pale light.
His spirit tight, he faces the day.
He works and toils, his sweat and tears,
In silence, as the seasons bring more fears.
Yet still he hopes. A glimmer stays.
And he wonders: Will peace find its way?
To his worn fields, his weary heart,
And he’ll find solace in a brand new start.
But until then, the snakes of hate,
They lurk in the shadows, waiting to sow deceit.
A garden of discord, where love won’t grow,
And the farmer’s soul is sold to sorrow.
