twenty-two seasons have passed
the farmer still keeps sowing
for the harvest never arrives.

rainstorms and thunder crackle above
the farmer showers his love and shows his might
there goes his former friends, now foes, and family of snakes
their lands are golden with barley, and his shrivelled up and dried.

they point fingers at him, say the goddess isn't above him
he is a sinner; he must have put the wrong seeds in the soil.

the farmer knows he does no wrong which can't be forgiven
he does nothing worthy of sin, only mistakes
and yet, when he sees the pot-bellied usurper sit on the throne
his heart shatters at the thought of sin.

he would not sin. never.

for he knows, the mother watches him
he is the least favourite child
on the verge of a villain, hanging down a cliff
his tests never end; mother wants him to suffer
not 'cause he is her first, but because he is the last—the unwanted litter mate.

he has all the knowledge inside
he is aware of the finite
but what use is to water the crops
when the mother wishes to destroy?

the farmer knows his mother embodies chaos
she feeds on wrath and frayed nerves
he hasn't given her the chance.

the world waits for him to break
to plunge himself in the river nearby
let his blood be spilled on the rocks
he considers it too, but doesn't cry
he wouldn't give up so easily
even if his mother tries.

the struggle is not of purity and sin
for the sinful get a million chances to redeem
god or goddess, what does it do to be one?
when the efforts of the farmer must always go to waste?

a field unharvested, it says
the reason is a child neglected.