“Welcome, welcome, my friend.
Look around you,
Doesn’t the world fill you with joy?”

I winced at the piercing daggers of gold from the sun,
Blinked, and inquired,
“What is the purpose of this?”

Abruptly, the owner of the voice looked disgusted,
Horrified at my curt query.
The magnitude of the answer, it seems,
Was more than he could bear.
And the figure left.
And I haven’t seen him since.

I found more humans in the mud.
The sick, churning mud.
I offered a hand and helped them up.
Together, we worked the fields.

Dawn to dusk we toiled in heat, rain, humidity,
Sweat, blood, tears,
And suffered sore, aching muscles.
No, never a day of rest.

We turned over the mud from which we had risen,
Coaxed sickly roots and weeds from the ground,
Cursed land, and I am to blame.

I wonder,
Had I not spoken so plainly that first day,
Would I know more than of this field and plough?
The joy he spoke of,
Is indeed a foreign concept.

Infinitely working.
Never a day of rest.

So, why me, oh God?
Why me?