Harvest

The winter haze hangs on the meadow, In the veiled sun the ghostly apparitions Mourn the ritual of yet another day, To smell the wet exudation of the grass, To till the field praying for the sun! Once a while moos pierce the silence Joined by the clangs of the tiny bells That adorns the creatures as mournful As the ones goading them to move on! They bellow when unable to take anymore, Hoping for a miracle that would unburden And bring a freedom only yearned in dreams! But as ordained the pale orb grows bright. God frantically pours his passion in the disc Colors of which spill over in the firmament! Blazes in another day of harvesting hopes.