Sitting on a saddle-like mounted stones, <br />Watching the river runs gently yonder, <br />Wondrous, countless, tiny whirlpools, <br />Sublimely caught his eyes to ponder; <br /> <br />Alone, he sees, he hears nothing but <br />To himself as high as the bird flown, <br />To charcoaled stem of a dead tree, it sat, <br />Mimicked all noises if he had not known; <br /> <br />Under that tree, his carabao rests in a paddle, <br />Snorting and snoozing on his muddy cradle, <br />But his master came to drag him out again, <br />So he rose without a splash of complain. <br /> <br />Back and forth, he and his master worked on, <br />To an acre of land that this man only owned, <br />As they labored together, time didn’t matter, <br />‘Till the summons of the night ruled thereafter. <br /> <br />Like a glowing star afar from the moonlight spot, <br />A kerosene lamp lit by the window of cogon hut, <br />While the son’s fueling a kiln to steam a pot of rice, <br />The farmer and his carabao made home without sighs.<br /><br />Efren Petalver Carranza<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-farmer-and-his-carabao/
