written by: Tebatjo Malaka
There is earnest wisdom to adore,
In a tiny seed that slips ‘neath the soil,
Then one from a staid sage of mickle lore,
Of how per sufferance to labour and toil.
Tho’ in gloom interred for a time, or more,
And however long seasons turn and twist,
Plods unseen, dies in hope, with life galore
Jets, all in hopes of sunshine and the mist.
Yet mankind, toiling only in the morn,
Inward pine to bring in the sheaves by eve,
And, failing on their raring lust to spawn
A quick harvest, quit and never receive.