The Harvesters Poem by Jordy lustig

The gritty whited winged flapping sky,
bringing the feast,
of good dwellers and restful corpses.
wimping softly from exhaustion,
I shall attend escaping my last touch of barley.
My back hooked at wood of the dark tree,
while enhanced my surroundings the last drip of water,
that some men still gallop fetching.
Now in a doze dreaming of mystic foods to fill my belly.

I see a view.

That Searching between the sods of gold
graining patches of dirt.
And feet messing with its broad gold stretch,
long legs preying on its wholesome robe.

Peeking closer to the horizon of pale mornings washing.
Trees are plentiful humming hymns
Of seasons,
playful to colour this image,
And it's not dry.

Theres a pool of youth brewing some monks,
they are clean to their bottoms.
But Oh God cleanse them from old beggars
Or the wrinkled.
They vex on their days,
passing the spread out chapels at all angles and monastery's.
Give them adaptation to the bystanders.
No matter what shoe colour,
they must always care.

But prays can be nice, its touch bends to a village.
Thatch roofs and the bareness of all land,
some settlers,
Were else should they look.
They keep on with the habits of farmers.
while some have been bored and tossed sticks,
others do labour,
The batch of civil stays the same.

While my finger is in the clay of this image,
my spirt on the flow of dreams.
I have spaded all the curls of tress
Everywhere,
it's has shadows on all brinks.

But to one shadow,
that's lantern flame fades,
blades of ships floating and docking at the bay.
The face of the town looks ancient,
and is naked in its dark web.
The unread novels of this town not to be heard,
it's the beastly phantom,
the plague of spinners faces,
they have stepped on industrial planting grounds,

Far from nature.

And this vision has repeated its steps,
when crowning the distance of the horizon.
The same fluids that bread this image,
goes on and on.

And When I'm nudged by a foot,
I go blurry,
and Distant silhouettes collide with reality,
until I smell,
the scent of soup cradled in a oak bowl.
With the brow of neighbours asking,
'Was the rest good, have some soup, the harvest is done,
Rejoice'.