To Feed a Country
To farm the land is hard work.
The sun beats hot upon your head,
The whirr of insects fills your ears as the sweat drips off your brow as you tend the plants.
We work row after row,
Day after day,
And by the sweat of our labor the corn ripens,
The watermelon grow round and sweet,
Onions grow fat in the ground.
Then harvest time comes,
The trucks come to the farms like ants,
They carry their fill and are off–
Out into the world,
Bringing the fruits of our labor; our food to far away places.
They feed our country…
Our work feeds the country.
But then we must ration our water.
Protests for the wellbeing of our plants fall on deaf ears.
They are not important enough.
One after another our plants die.
Once green fields turn brown with thirst,
The plants wither and turn to dust.
Only we, the farmers, know what lies ahead–hunger.
Too late does the government realize their mistake.
Too late come the depositions asking us, the farmers, to grow our produce.
They are too late.
Harvest time comes;
But there is nothing for the trucks.
They leave our farms empty.
We have nothing to offer our country,
And our people starve.
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