The mouse in the field of wheat
He runs along its rows with quick feet.
Seeing a grain, he takes it
Then returns to his burrow to store it.
In his humble abode, he makes his nest,
And in the straws and hay he takes his rest.
The granaries of his forefathers lay before him
The golden pebbles glimmer in the dim.
The farmer’s truck came in the morning,
With heavy plough and sharp cutter, it came without warning.
The mouse was asleep in his bed
Fat and warm, he was well fed.
The truck churned the straws, and cut the stalks
the ground was plundered with pointed forks.
And one fork pierced the ground that day
And stabbed the heart of mouse and hay.
Oh mouse! My dear gentle mouse!
Your soul is crushed and so is your house!
I mourn for your passing as no one else will
As your blood drips down the road, all the way to the mill.