Outside the farmstead fence
they sat forlorn and bedraggled
like a rain-soaked vulture on mythical errand
clutching to their pulsating chest
a long slate of promises with zest
they sold a creamy dream
to the owner of this luscious plantation.
They promised sedulous weeding and watering
so that crops would flourish
they promise to tend the field
for bountiful yield all round seasons.
The farmland owner bought the creamy dream
and yielded the farmstead to phantom hope
cultivated by a conclave of roving hope raisers.
And now
the plantation is like a scruffy orphan
overgrown with wanton weeds.
The promise stockbrokers
vend blames in gruffly tones
they blame acute rheumatism
that makes weeding and watering
a new science in rolling boulder uphill
they blame the sun for heat at noon
they blame the sky for rain at dawn
they blame darkness for a tryst with dusk
they blame light for fleeing the arrow of night
at the season of harvest
they clutch to their deviant chests
long baskets filled with pests.
When this feast of lack is over
we will gather at the village square
in memory of this conclave of cooks
that feed the multitude with
specious tongues as fire logs.