"The Forgotten Labourer," by James (20)

by James, age 20

 

THE FORGOTTEN LABOURER

 

The wind blows to the south

Then round to the north.

The exhausted labourer

Eagerly waits for nightfall.

To settle down and relax,

After a hard day's work.

 

Early next morning,

The scolding voice can be heard.

The harsh misanthropic woman

Scolding stuttles him.

"Wake up you sluggard!

More sleep no food."

 

Out from the shack

Moves the weary labourer.

Wearing tattered shirt

And old shabby shorts.

Covering his shivering body

From the chilly drizzly morning.

 

With a cupped hand,

He scoops the dew

Above the green grass.

And wipes the remains

Of last night's supper.

Stepping with an embedded foot

Which is swollen with jiggers.

 

He moves closer to the dilapidated hut

Where, everybody holds a calabash

Full of white thin porridge

And waits to be served.

Dejectedly, he takes the porridge

And hurriedly finishes.

Ready to start the day's work.

 

He stands still

Legs apart, raising his thin arms up

And cries out for help.

As if to catch manna from heaven.

Wondering may-be one day

Something will fall miraculously.