bread

Nothing is silent,
When it's forgotten,
But no one will hear,
A lonely heart bleed.



Mornings in the meadow,
     the sun barely on the rise
     reapers reaping what was sown
     scythe cutting low the stalks
     of brown wheat standing blown

Days spent in the mill,
     a single miller with his toil
     grinding to flour the grain
     the mill wheel slowly turning
     crushing steadily with no pain

Afternoons in the bake house,
     shadows lengthen in the East
     ovens hot to the baker's touch
     rolled, shaped, glazed and baked
     bread only to live by is not much

Evenings around the table,
     give thanks for what we receive
     eat in silence but not in sorrow
     yesterday has been forgotten
     the mill wheel will turn tomorrow ...

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