My hands are empty,
And the land won’t grow.
I find nothing to reap
Among the acres I’ve sown.
Bushels of barren
And barrels of naught,
Is this the feast coming
From all I have wrought?
The season is turning,
The ground hardened beneath
To the cries of the wretched
And the sodden berieved.
Must we suffer the hunger,
This bitter divide,
Between fields filled with plenty
Where the sated reside?
My gut screams, revolt!
Even dirt must resist
The aweful plowing by strangers;
Do more than subsist.
Cast away mounds
Built on sorrow and sythe,
Untether the roots
That sicken and bind.
Go wayward and wander,
Cast my soul to the seas,
Toward luck or misfortune,
The penniless free.
With a tune and a whistle,
Let the fair winds resolve
The heartache of famine–
Send me where I belong.
–C. Green
(Ballad in D Dorian)