The stick pounded upon the garden gate
no human holds rakes or hoes,
the shovels are wildly digging ditches.
The sound of pounding kept
on sustaining until my daughter
laughed at the crows with hay in
their feathers... the farm hands
grew short their wits,
their pits all soaked with wet,
and the pounded shrieked louder
The sun hung passed the clouds at 2,
shadows began to lengthen
and all I could do
was to receive the nodding
of a rifle turned off to on.
I approached the pounding,
feet fumbling on rocky ground,
the sound of a pistol struck every ear,
and pierced my daughter's heart.
The culprit pranced away
as I stand tall as decrepit tree,
fire erupted in the east...
the smoke annihilated me.