The Scarecrow, the Woman, and the Crows

Last night, I lay quietly in my bed,
My face buried in the round pillow,
my body kissing the crumpled bedsheet –
of rough cotton which was made.

I read a book on the farewell to arms,
and how a soldier ran away from the war
with his newly found love in a young, caring nurse,
talking in whispers, oh, what loving charms!

My eyes closed like a sleeping flower,
and my mind drifted miles afar,
in thoughts of a woman whom I had left –
her thoughts engulfing me with every sleepless hour.

She would chirp and talk bravely, perching at her bench,
her hair left open, her nails well decorated –
each week with a different shade of colour
like a flourishing crop; her voice more melodious than French.

And for long hours I would sit quietly behind and gaze,
at the movement of her eyes and the swaying of her hands;
my fingers trembled when she would look behind,
and I would sit still, like a scarecrow in a field of maize.

Time passed by and she went away – in much of a haste,
doing her deeds – laughing, singing, living;
and, I stood alone in my abandoned, barren field,
while the crows under my straw-stuffed body built their nest.

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