If the sun never rises, blame it
Crops wither and die upon
The cracked earth below.
"Curse the sun and it's antics"
The young farmer bellowed.
He held the dagger to his chest
And said to the sun "be my guest"
And promptly stabbed through daylight,
Leaking moonlight to the sky.
He smiled with glee and headed back,
"Now my plants will grow back!"
He sits upon the moonlight waiting,
And watched the stars, scintilating.
Nothing grew but deep regret
And the farmer knew his fate was set.
The haze sets in and clouds our vision,
No hope can be seen on the horizon.
We smell the pungent odour of dazed
Men blaming the sun for their mistakes.
When the moon rises
On a warm summers' night,
Who shall we blame then,
But the sun's rushed flight?