Outside my thatch, sculptured mist sited on the shivering trees.
The browning green aura of the farm is silenced by cold-baked breeze,
That slowly seeps through my pores to arrest my aging bones.
The birds sung neither of their morning hymns, nor out to steal the farm grains.
Farmers are few, with their hands hidden in their over tailored farm suits.
Their giant hats relaxed perfectly on their heads without murmur or dispute.
Hastiness was aborted today, even those arriving on bicycles
Ride diligently, and hung on the handles, are their sickles.
Grains and tubers must miss many absentees,
And their caressing hands that always tease their stems in sweet ease.
The trees would be sad to shade few farmers
When at last, the sun releases upon the earth its hammers.
The delighted ones shall be the rodents; they shall witness no brothers' blood to be spilt by the farm dogs.
Who always position by the flanks of the farm like thugs.