Hoes and Harvest

The soil is dry, cracked like lips in harmattan winds,
but the hoe sings against the earth—
a chorus of blisters, a hymn of sweat.

Coins do not rain from idle skies,
nor do blessings bloom in empty palms.
A man who waits for golden rivers
dies thirsty at the banks of deception.

See the girl with stars in her eyes,
plucking empty promises like wild berries.
But bitter is the fruit of shortcuts,
poisoned with whispers of regret.

See the boy chasing shadows in alleys,
trading his dreams for dust and silver,
but a borrowed sun never shines long,
and debts of dignity weigh heavier than gold.

So, rise before the rooster’s cry,
let your hands speak the language of labor.
For the sweat of the honest
is the ink that signs tomorrow’s harvest.

And when the wind hums your name in fields of plenty,
you will know—
not all riches jingle,
some grow.