Call me, in your native tongue. Rough and calloused hands touch softest. Beat your head against the wall, you will always be this. In the fields, with sun burning shoulders, Then rest on grass and use the shade of leaves. Water quenches more than paper. Food fills stomach’s void. Field mowed and tree picked. Even then, the Earth is fine, but oh so hard.
Write the unsung hero of today the pain that he has felt For in true sorrow and true love can both be found the same. A quarrel of the highest fought A battle of the lowest tried And in the end they all will say “True love lost here, True sorrow found.”