Elegy, Unsung

A poem on the death of a laborer

We’re often told despite our yield,
	“The fallow ground is tilled by grief!
	 Your labor, soon, will be made brief.”
By those who sit outside the field.

When the scythes were sharpened by songs
	Of a golden, glistening wheat,
      For bread, and beer, and meals complete,
This admonition captured throngs.

For years we’ve sown, reaped bounties full
	Of grand harvest, turned to ashes
	Within our hands, swelled from slashes.
The songs sung by those with mouths full.

This field we walk will bring no grain.
	Our children waste away, our wives
	cling to some long-lost hope their lives,
Our work, will not be spent in vain.

The songs are all they’ve ever known,
	as skin clings to their bones like straw
	Clings to scythe, awaiting the raw,
Racking that ends in dust, alone.

Perhaps there’s mercy to be found
	In pain that ends a life of loss
	And stretches forth, along, across
The crystal sea of hallowed ground.