The Last Days

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,

He remembers,

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?

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