Van Gogh, "Peasant Burning Weeds," 1883
Too many are owned by their possessions
Almost nothing belongs to me alone
To my master, I pose no glib questions
My will belongs to him; I never groan
Toil is my lot, labor my vocation
Sweat is the only equity I own
The poor form a vast and quiet nation
Our priest is interest; our god, a loan
But here, in this dry, gently waving field
I mutter a eulogy for dead weeds
When they are gathered, it will be revealed:
My power to give each one what it needs
My fire grants liberty from decay
Flames are my subjects: they my will obey
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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