Sonnet: Harvest-time

In Summer, farmers scythe the harvest fast;
Their weary frames from morn till eve stay bent;
The produce sheaved is dried in fields so vast;
The air with songs of joy from heart is rent.

The scorching Sun doesn't bother their tanned skin;
Despite their speed, their work is ne’er over;
All hands labour, young, old, both kith and kin,
For golden harvest, thanking Lord- Giver.

The reapers everywhere must work quite hard;
There is no time to eat or drink water!
Their sweat-drenched land has yielded them reward;
The struggle involved ain't a great matter.
Each morn they stand and pray to Sun- their God,
Without which, there's no food, peasant, landlord.

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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