The Farmer and His Carabao
Sitting on a saddle-like mounted stones,
Watching the river runs gently yonder,
Wondrous, countless, tiny whirlpools,
Sublimely caught his eyes to ponder;
Alone, he sees, he hears nothing but
To himself as high as the bird flown,
To charcoaled stem of a dead tree, it sat,
Mimicked all noises if he had not known;
Under that tree, his carabao rests in a paddle,
Snorting and snoozing on his muddy cradle,
But his master came to drag him out again,
So he rose without a splash of complain.
Back and forth, he and his master worked on,
To an acre of land that this man only owned,
As they labored together, time didn’t matter,
‘Till the summons of the night ruled thereafter.
Like a glowing star afar from the moonlight spot,
A kerosene lamp lit by the window of cogon hut,
While the son’s fueling a kiln to steam a pot of rice,
The farmer and his carabao made home without sighs.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
Added by Poetry Lover
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