The master cropper

In my village, lives a farmer- The master cropperCropping like every good farmerIn the loams of our partBut the harvest is always fickle In some seasonsThe crops roast in the heatIn other seasonsThey drown in the rainsIn some years, it’s the pest’s own Yet the master cropper does not cryAnd He does not quit And wrestle not the powersEven when the silent voices Tempts his sacrilege self And this very yearIt’s the same master cropperDancing in his strange rhythm - Peacefully and patiently Awaiting the crops to sing their blissIn a beautiful ceremonial harvest