Wasted Days

A farmer toils from dawn's first light,

With calloused hands, from day to night.

Each seed he plants with care and grace,

Becomes a feast time can’t erase.

But those who idle, dreams confined,

Let fleeting hours slip through their mind.

Their fields lie bare, their barns stay cold,

No harvest comes from stories told.

The earth rewards the sweat and strain,

Through sun and storm, through loss and gain.

Yet wasted days breed empty lands,

No fruit is borne from idle hands.

So rise and labor, strong and true,

For life gives back what you pursue.

The farmer’s feast, the squandered plea—

Both mirror choices, yours and me.