Under the sun
- the farmer plows on
Tapestries stained with mud
- hang behind his unborn sun
With weathered, leathered hands
- the plow etches the earth
Somewhere in the stars or desert sand
- the scales weighed his worth
Under a tempermental moon
- the farmer's wife cries
She sleeps past primal peace, but soon
- awakes to Gabriel's trumpet's sigh
The barren fields and her fertile womb
- mean no freedom from the prison
She steeples her hands and prays past noon
- thankful for what she's been given
Under the sun
- you taste your bread
The fork is held like an empty gun
- you don't eat meat, you'd said
The wheat and grain pour, evermore
- from farmers with empty wallets
Then comes the smile to your chef, the grin of a whore
- poison, that's what we call it