A Hymn for the Harvest

What hope has he now To wipe the dirt from his eyes And cleanse the cuts and clotted blood Tattering his furrowed brow Each step a collapse of tired bones A rhythmic pulse through stagnant vein His breath escapes without a sound His feet grinding against the stone The sheen of his rusted old blade To bring in his pitiful harvest The toll of the days long labour A body that slowly decays He stares upon the ageless face Of father pain and mother grief Is it with them that he will find His respite in their embrace? What hope has he now To wipe the dirt from his eyes