What could be
The length of this
Lonely furrow, I ask
Of you my friend
How long do I
Plough this fallow
That gets repeatedly
Inundated leaving slush?
Where roses don't bud
Where seed doesn't sprout
There my tent is pitched
There I will breathe my last
indira babbellapati
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-journal-of-an-unknown-woman-1/
