I do not give the soils their resting time
Do not abound with the fallow
I plow
This is the only thing I still do
I plow
To the interferences, I do not let their part of secret life
There were no renewal of the elements, no discreet work of creatures
The anecic wildlife was deported, I no longer hear its wisper
I hear nothing
I plow
I plow
Return from dawn to dusk my patch of fiasco
It is a steep terrain

The land is bare under the torrential rains of false routes
It disgorges
Its entrails almost visible under the erosion
The land is parched with the musky suns
It cracks
I lost the biomass out of carelessness, forgetting to align perspectives
I plow
The humus is decomposed and the furrows bottomless
I even lost the idea of sowing

 I plow relentlessly slitting the sides of the earth
Always identical
Plant nothing, spread nothing, expect nothing
I sleep little, watching the running of the plowing implements
Which could decapitate me
I see, I see that nothing grows
That this work of ox is vain
Lacks the hand of la Semeuse
Her faith in persistence

May 2015