Hundred candles lit in the wind

On his birthday the poor farmer dreams
After decades of bitter fighting with crops.
He's raised on grass
But now he sees the pasture
A barren land,
And faraway ruined tomb of his poem like wife.
The offspring abandoned the fruitful soil
And ran away to the colorful Town.
He's alone and bedridden
But still bit comfortable on his hay mattress.
Who lit hundred candles on this dark cake; Is it the World's end?
And he firmly believes that his beloved wife celebrates her intimate companion's centenary.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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