Harvest in the sun
Basket are dancing on the head of big children,
The vegetation and the deadlock
The fear of the season and the razing in sun,
Big children with bigger laughing mouth,
With hoes and cutlass
Ready to damage the fucking crops.
Their heart are strong,
And their face are bitter.
This is a tournament between good and evil,
All individual within this state,
Putting on the helmet of war,
Ready to damage the fucking crops.
Their hands are wild,
And their face smoke weeds.
They set their feet upon the bottomless pit of the world.
New born babies on the horizon,
Shattered heart and grievance,
No telephone call, no techno-or-logic.
Men with grown hair
And wild bones,
Ready to damage the fucking crops.
The booted men high their moral,
While the aged drum the native drum,
And woman with naked heart dancing.
Innocent souls weeping a salty water,
Their heart are broken like glass into pieces,
And their tongue taste the world.
Enough harvested crop that the mouth could manage,
Dancing children and the weeping basket,
Coughing hoes and the sneezing cutlass,
Big children with empty palm heaping along the road,
The beggars blindness sees,
The crippled leg walked.
Even the dead descended,
The glory of the stars and beauty of the nights.
Joy in the faces of newly born knight.
Happiness filled up the atmosphere,
As grain flows like river,
Sands like stones,
Water like blood.
Peace is what sweetened sugar,
War is what bittered bitterleaf
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