Farmers

We toiled, sweat dripping down our faces.

We looked up to God, hands turned up like we had been taught in catechism, we were pliable,

Open:

Like the sky we wanted to see:

Dropping God’s tears; The God of the poor in spirit(and pocket).

Farmer, keep on working; Even as your hoe meets hard ground.

You may rest under the iroko tree later, parched lips meet cool water.

 

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