I worked from day to night, sowing the drying field.
Making magic, or so they say.
Growing fresh thyme and golden roses behind my wooden hut.
Land is my best friend, and seeds are my lovers.
Depending my life on a thin string of seasons.
Sometimes on cold nights, I went out to my porch.
Learning the stars and their beautiful constellations.
Cherishing the feeling of giving lives to my crops.
And swearing to stay with them until the harvest time,
just like a groom swearing for his bride to be.
People could see that my hands are wrinkling from the hard work,
but they said nothing much about it.
Instead they would compliment about the vibrant colors of the veggies,
and I’d show them the largest grin when they did so.
Having those fruits are more important than having some boys,
growing old with blooming daisies are more important than growing old with some daughters.
Loner, they would say.
But they forgot that I had my crops to keep me accompanied,
and they kept forgetting that plants are living creatures too.
My neighbors couldn’t hear how they whispered back to me,
when I told them how I love them.
My neighbors couldn’t hear their cheerful songs,
that’s why they didn’t join me when I’m dancing around tomatoes and watercress.
A queen could have her knights with her, but big oak trees are there to protect my house.
Young kids could keep their dreams high on the sky,
hungry to discover around the globe.
But staying here in my crowded hut and my green green field,
is my infinite dream.
I would never trade them with mounds of diamonds.
I would never take them for granted.
I would be happy to die within the stems of celery,
and letting my corpse produce fertilizers for them.
Just like Romeo died for Juliet.
Isn’t it romantic?