We chew the old stringy parables
while saintly philosophers smirk,
saying they told us so, here’s payoff
for frivolous ways and foolishness:
Our fields are blighted with poverty,
even the grasshoppers hold back.
No penance ever persists. Look, now
our fields have been sevenfold blessed;
enough for the grasshoppers too.
Philosophers’ teeth grind words
like improvidence, indulgence, poverty -
but this time, we know better.
We have sweet bread on our tables,
grasshoppers chanting in our beds;
the philosophers keep fretting,
but poverty is a fact of life. We scrape,
sow and reap our fields, play
the fiddle too, with impunity.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Røken would be