The Cursed Land

Long the land watches for death or harvest

amongst the lulling black mounds

a slumber in piles,

huddled so neatly

without blankets

from the shivering wind blowing meanly

under the sway of the killing night’s climb.

 

Underneath are all bones,

life clutching the long tilled soil,

the farmer’s harlot oft despoiled,

denied wages, seeds scattered, an ever

cursing field,

demanding her coin,

the child

torn, sold from her womb.