As children we roamed through fields of rye
shielded by our mother’s watchful eyes.
Life had been bliss, it had not been sorrow.
Our fears of tomorrow - dreams that were borrowed.
Calloused hands that held aspirations,
weighed themselves down to maintain our jubilation.
Having toiled in fields making sacrifice.
They held themselves not as forlorn figures -
happy to go through the rigors.
Our parents they were and are.
We made light of their toils.
Some children are spoiled so they
see the spoils as meek and develop
resentment that becomes abroil.