The neighbors, they decry
His faith is wasted
On fleeting shadows
And senseless energies;
The day would shine,
Encouragement or no,
With white hot ferocity
And would yield
What it would

And so they came
Upon the Farmer—
Eyes afire as torches,
Torches afire as answers—
And broke the land
He’d nurtured from womb,
And left him alone
With only his faith
And their words,
Floating through his ears
Amongst the cinders

And upon spired hill
Set in oranges of noon,
The Farmer hailed his Lord
And thusly spoke,
“Of them all, my sun,
You have failed me most today.”