‘Twas born in a spit of brown earth upon the land.
I saw it last ‘ere winter
Where now the world is tread upon.
Soil tilled, like beating ocean’s froth
Under morning’s gaze, which set fire in the hearts
And shaking hands, which pulled the weeds
Sowed on good earth the seeds.
It was summer time then that came
Upon a brown spit of earth in a flood.
I felt a wind to my aching back.
It sang awake
My sweet golden flowers from the nest.
By shade of night, I heard them breathe;
Keeping close to tread the earth
And staying here to fill their needs,
I listen to what their sleep song heeds.
Even now I remember the tunes.
I have labored long
Under many red suns,
Eyes grown heavy by what they have seen.
For draught and weed have come and gone,
Left their scars on my golden flowers sweet.
Yet I am here now to rest,
For they have tilled me a nest
Where I will ever lie entwined,
Sung to sleep where such song cries.