Like A Treasure

The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. I sold rights, freedom, bought the field, though poor, I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.

My stomach wrenched taut; no food when I plead. Law pursued, a sign ahead: abundant. The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread.

Through cities I searched too low for my head, what rest for burdens leaves you wanting more? I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.

Stumbling, I dwelt on the field’s worth; ahead blind steps. The paid sum like an apple’s core. The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread.

Streams, long grass—no fences—outward I tread. I’ve sold each right, my feet are dusty, sore. I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.

The soil sounds soft where tired sinews feed. There free I lay, dream, in grace-offered clothes. The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.