Under the coarse sun she sowed,
Sowed seeds of oats and pumpkins,
Back bent, head low,

Eyes never met, voice never raised,
Her feet always moving,
Her hope never fazed

This time next year, the seeds will grow,
Into golden, leafy, fat, juicy things,
For picking, and plucking, and of-course, for show!

But Sun stood firm, like a god in the sky,
It’s flaring arms outstretched with disgusting sick pride,
Never leaving its throne, she could not deny

But she did not look up, she refused to do so,
Her back bent, head low,
She continued to sow

Seeds of rye and tomato scattered the ground,
Rushing in hundreds and thousands,
Nestling in the Earth, safe and sound

Sun raised its brows and continued to stare,
With grim malevolence and a grin so wicked,
Its eyes fell upon the planet, that seemed so bare

Dust and dirt reigned over the country,
Draining all hope, dwindling faith,
When will it show pity?

The people would cry, “This place is so barren!”
So, they left in a hurry, the ruins untended,
Searching for paradise in a world plagued with famine

But she continued to sow her endless seeds,
Eyes never met, voice never raised,
Hair thinning and grey, showing both age and grief,

Sometimes Sun would wonder,
“What a funny little world it is,
My stay could ****, but so can my slumber.”

One year passed and Sun was jaded,
Of the blanket of nothing,
Of the lonesome land that was now degraded

The country folk lost courage and Sun felt dull,
All abandoning town,
For a better place to indulge,

But remember those hands, that carried not just seeds
But a little pouch of water,
For her little greens!

She was a just a tiny little thing, fighting her tiny little war,
But there were a million tiny seeds,
Now an army once more!