It’s the last day of the month
It’s a Saturday
It shall give way
To the beginning
Of that month
To end, the first quarter
Of the year.
The weather is warm,
And the dry land cries for water
When shall we begin farming?
So that we can again, get busy?
The old soldier asks?
His youth is away faded
In the foreign land, he lives not again
Home called, and he answered
It is a clarion call.
Bent on tilling the earth, with eyes fixed on the dry land,
The days of his youth,
The days when he worked tirelessly
With the Whitemen, the great men of the season.
“The memory pierces my heart”, the old soldier groans
In my youth, I enjoyed life, so much that I planned not for the future,
That future is my present now,
Wife and children, I have not
To help me in this present I live in.
Had I planted my hard currencies in this land I find dry in this present,
Would I not have seen the sun smiling back at me?