FARMFIELD Part One

Farmfield will not harvest vacuous mills at purblind of roisterer's pall; earthenware of laborious hours and sonorous mounds,till not the fallow ground 's earthbound-skin vacuous slop but the laborious earthwork.Savour this earthling slingshot for inherent dearth and for this tillage,plows deep the earth's reservoir.As this earthly toil,dutifully dunged,yet a living dune,to the warmth of heavenly moisture,showered as ducks,as stalks of Iroko tree as the heavenly dew as fleet dribbles.They will not falter you,nor drift you amiss,like streams of water,gushing you upon your belicose navel,haunted on a bed of quicksand,for the toil that roots and stooks the earthwork,plows a burrowing field,for a harvest of futurologist someday.Benot flinched like a poltroon's dress rehearsal,but only that torrent's turgid flux and steam,not the drapery of the toil and the perspiration of the laborer's breath,may smite you downhill.Long briddle the weary sun's downer and wind's downbeat pounding your mortar,withesoteric pestle