Mutevu

Mutevu, weathered hands upon his staff,  

Surveys the land, where crops are scant and tough.  

The sun beats down, a relentless tyrant's stare,  

Parched earth reflects the heat, a burden hard to bear.  

He wipes his brow, a sigh escapes his lips,  

"What use is toil," he ponders, with a grip  

Tightened around the wood, a silent, stoic man,  

"If all we gain is barely what we can  

Sustain ourselves?" A flicker in his eye,  

A wisdom born of hardship, reaching high.  

He murmurs then, a truth that sets him free,  

"Nothing of worth is built without a plea  

To sweat and bleed, to plant where hope is thin,  

For roots to reach, for life to rise within."  

The sun's harsh gaze, a challenge Mutevu meets,  

With sacrifice he sows, for future, bountiful sweets.