Far in the Prairie, nearer the shadows of hopelessness
There stood a young indigent shepherd
Under the hawthorn tree striving to rich up
Through the thorns, where laid woodpigeon nest
With marks through his body and bleeding fingers
Hunger let no man ever to resign, commonly fathering blokes
From the thatched sheds in the village down the dry hills,
The hunter, left children with moaning paunches
Infant feeding from milkless, shrunken *******, he
Fears mostly to hurl rocks up the tree
Eggs might fall and brake on the ground
Time flows wild with rivers not come again
For he might take longer, and squabs might hatch
And fledge to fly away, and his kids might die of hunger as winter arises