Part I:

There were carabaos in a three box rice field,
They are all wearing a ragged straw hat;
While tilling and plowing and planting --
It with rice to the gray and hard mud puddle.
The smell of rusty iron punches the nose,
And nothing they can do but snort out disgust.
For the hard mud puddle perfumed --
By a carcass calluses and some worn out sweat --
Is the ingredient -- a fertilizer -- essential for its growth.

They race with their breaths --
Zooming and vrooming --
As if horses galloping hard --
In the plain racing track.
While the owner of the state with his head high and grinning,
With his hands a sting ray tail, he scourge repetitively under the shining suave sun.
A cigar in his mouth -- oozes a crimson brimstone smoke.

The owner of the farm exclaimed, "Give blood or lose blood!"
That a tyrannous and ominous voice echoed to the plains,
Then reverberates back from the green hills, from the mountains;
Where tall trees and green grasses are the witness of --
The luxurious life they had in that farm, where they bend --
Their backs to kiss the mud puddle as they huddled --
To eat their delicious lunch in the void meadows;
Where winds jeered on them and mock on them for their precious lives.
"Wow! Nice lunch!" They said driving away the leaves out from the cracked and parched ground.

The carabaos reaped the golden grain,
Where grain stalks kneeling and bowing --
As they offer themselves with constrained continence.
A brown horse passes by, carrying two full sack --
In his back. He was asked by a pig who swims in the mud and gets up --
With glee and content, while wearing a shade under a golden straw umbrella.
"What thing is that in your back?" A hard-bitten horse who had his tongue --
Licked the cold sediment; replied weak and wearily with dreary eyes.
"A sack of iron that weighed a million pounds of sweat and blood."

The pig -- it stood and unsaddled the horse with no flesh but bones,
Whose lips are purple and eyes are hollowed -- dilated like horizons;
In which you can see them in the seashore,
And above the highest mountain that you climb.
The pig with just hooves, it picked the two full sack lightly.
It said, "This is just feathers, a handful of feathers."
Then it entered the house, enjoying the harvest that others cost a sweat.
But to the carabaos and the horse, there in the outside; while their water --
Dripped from their mouths, enjoys the sight of the meal. Hoping for crumbs.

The sky let out a mournful sigh that even the star have noticed its grief,
But they are gone for a different business to attend the to the funeral.
It started to cry with the moon whose beam is a sheening --
Crystal of its tears that falls to the dying three box rice field.
The carabaos, who had nothing but a ragged straw hat;
Looked up above with a wish. Hoping for some miracle to happen.
How long will they bend to kiss the mud puddle that smells --
Like a carcass calluses and is fertilized by salt sweet and rose blood.
When shall the heaven come and land its feet to scatter it's cursed blessing?

© Anonymous Pseudonym