I am a scarecrow,
Yet, my mind is not narrow,
Dreamer, I find my way by moonlight,
And never by torchlight.
I see the dawn when man sleeps
And the farmer diligently reaps.
I am the least fashionable,
Not that it is not affordable,
But my comfort lies in hats battered
And clothes, torn and tattered.
I am the commander of the fields,
All seeds sprout at my will.
The birds are scared of me,
Seeing me, they all flee.
Come rain, come storm, come thunder,
I will never be torn asunder.
I wait for the ripening of the corn,
In somber silence with unlocked horns.
Sometimes, when I am alone,
Lost and forlorn,
I look at the contours of the moon’s lips
And the swaying of her hips,
Generous, fluid, avuncular,
I stand perpendicular,
And wipe shards of my frozen tears
Without the least tinge of fears.
I think of man and his mansions,
All made according to fashion.
He is for ever lost in a race,
With no time to look at his face.
Between phones, computers, gaming systems,
Tablets and robots creating mayhem,
He is about to lean on Jibo,
The family robot, to boost his ego.
Cry my beloved country,
While here, I stand as sentry.