The Ploughman

To the smith go I now,
I’ve a treasure, my plough,
He shall sharpen the share
In the fire’s mighty glare
Loud the hammer shall call
And the rust-flakes shall fall,
Treasured plough, not a jest,
Heard and tempered and best.

On the land’s empty spread,
On fields worked until dead,
I shall level it plain,
Plough the field up again,
And set free, redolent,
New-turned earth’s vital scent.

There, where fear dwelt of old,
Where the loud cannon rolled,
There were Sodomish death
Burned to ash with fire-breath,
Where the dew would smoke then
With the blood of slain men,
Where earth shuddering groaned,
There my work shall go on.

Go for naught, days of old!
My strength grown hundred-fold,
In my heart a fire lies,
And sparks flash in my eyes,
I shall toss back my brow,
With my arm shall smite now,
Dawn to dawn, singing, pace
Throughout limitless space.

Z. Biadula 1922