The borders are sweet and fertile
The plough hits the earth and enters it like a knife
What he plants will explode when the rebels step to the harvest
The poison he drops from his plane he calls pesticide
He keeps working
Smoke pouring through his crops
Shell shocked Refugees wander through
The fixed frown of the farmer as bent as the hoe blade
He tends his patch while chaos devours the land
Borders burn again and again
He simply plods away at his tilling
As if the shrapnel won't hit him
Conflict finds fuel and ammunition
The farmer of war finds his pipe and lights it
No birds sing or peck the ground for worms
He is not burnt not touched by any bullet
Late afternoon's sun casts the farmer of war's long shadow
And in it's bounds a megalomaniac germinates
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