an old writer and his words

They took up shovels,pickaxes, bare fingersto pry up the seedlings,the saplings just takingroot and the seedsjust planted still wateredby the sweat and tearsof those who lovinglytilled the brittle soil. They offered nothingin return, barren groundwhere only anger grew,fertilized by fear, byby greed, by blindness. Will we sit by and watchas promises wither underan ever stronger,…