Leave me be, let my wounded heart bleed.
Did not your own eyes see the planted seed,
Dug out while yet a sapling in the soil;
There goes the reward for the farmers toil.
What shall we say now to the little one,
Tugging teats from whom breath has gone?
And what shall we say to the grayed one,
Looking in the eyes of a breathless son?
Say, is he blind that holds the harvest sickle?
Why doth he pluck fledgling stars, yet to twinkle?
Foolish farmer, hungry; he slaughters little chicks
And stuffs apples yet unripe, in his cheeks!
How many coins shall we barter for breath?
Gold or silver, what shall we give you, Death?
If your lips can mouth to us a mortal price
Shall we not pay, though you ask us thrice?
How did we come to this market of death
Where unwanted goods are gifted free for all?
Even the one that holds an empty wallet
Gets 100% discount in each dreadful stall.
All are forced to swim in the raging river,
Though we wear no swimming pants.
Lucky are they that emerge with a shiver-
The others, gone, we remember in chants.
…Oh, how fickle is this breath-filled clay;
And how brief his sojourn in this lay!