Days Of Old And Days Of New Poem by stephanie varnadore

My days alone in the fields are numbered,
In the palace she sweetly slumbers.
As I quietly walk to her mistress thus woven,
Whiole the Lady on her opium ponders at me and my head so golden.

My new wife was regarded a slave,
A kitchen servent, with punishment to have.
She does not talk, but when spoken to,
Creating and mendinf clothing and shoes.

Four nights of much pain and blood,
Three children, two boys and a girl, now stood.
But throughout a great drought,
The fourth, a girl, now lies breathless near a pot.

Disappaering to the south in a fire wagon,
Quickly running in a small wagon.
Desparate measures is called a dagger,
When the whole family become none but beggars.

Sleeping in a covered hut,
All our lives are in a rut.
A ricksha runner is what I am,
Taxiing stuck up people who dont give a damn.

Thinking only of my land,
Soon the soil will be in my hand.
Soldiers making the town into plunder,
As I cowered, weak from wonder.

My neighbor has been covered with soot,
As a robbery is afoot.
Caught by a massive wave,
Rewarded with gold when a prince was saved.

Riches are all that is in,
While we leave the place of sin.
Back to my land and our house so ruined,
Holes in the roof and earthern walls disenigrating.

All new supplies had to be bought,
More land from the Great house is sought.
My neightbor now lives with me,
Helping with the harvest over see.

More workers live here and are paid,
Work and the faith is all that is said.
My wife now with pain and fright,
Bore two that are identical in sight.

The two eldest boys start school,
With a teacher who punishes the cool.
Being rich is only a state of mind,
Now my uncle lives off my hide.

Another wife is soon bhrought to the house,
With the beauty of an orchid trouse.
My wives shall soon be happy,
Liveing together all good and sappy.