The farmer bends beneath the sun,
His hands like roots, his work undone.
He tills the soil, he plants the seed,
He knows the patience life will need.
He waits for rain, for seasons' turn,
His strength is quiet, earned in burn.
But without the sword, his land's not free—
No harvest comes without the fight, you see.
The fighter stands, his blade in hand,
A wolf that guards the farmer’s land.
His courage cuts, his fury sings,
But what of peace, what will it bring?
For blood alone can’t feed the mouth,
Can’t tend the soil or heal the drought.
Without the farmer’s steady grace,
The fighter’s strength will find no place.
It’s not enough to wield the steel,
To know the edge, the clash, the kill—
For crops must rise, for life to grow,
And peace, like war, takes seeds to sow.
The farmer’s heart, the fighter’s rage,
Both virtues bound on nature’s stage.
One works the ground, one guards the gate,
Together they defy their fate.
Without the sweat, the steady hand,
The fighter stands on barren land.
Without the sword, the iron will,
The farmer's fields are cold and still.
It’s not enough to fight and bleed,
Nor just to plant the tender seed.
For only when both hands are true,
Can life be built from what we do.
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When Silence Wept
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, the veil is torn away, revealing the undercurrents of darkness that run through the human experience. These poems are raw and relentless, exploring the spaces where light fails to reach, and the truths we fear most come...
