A morsel

 

A craving so strong to wish for
Mouthfuls, even of plain provender,
Something warm for the gut.
With the way I tremble, with hunger,
This urge, this infinite appetite,
Any food, hot or cold, is beloved.

My quest for a chewable piece,
Unbolts a wild thought on things,
From which the food I seek is made.
A food from sunbaked tropics’ grain, 
Or milk products made rich by patient craft,
And tubers grown on Nigerian broad plain.

Nourishment coming from the toil of those
Who sweat to plant, to tend and harvest,
Plantlets shooting green, in fine first strength,
And then reaped, a fully matured crop.
All set to eat where culture comes to play,
Everyone to their custom, good food to every test.

As easy as I can eat, I feel no urge to think,
That this food, the fine morsel in my grip,
Was toiled for by many with much cost,
To their health, their strength and their wealth.
Made up by mercies the weather deigns to grant,
To make worthy a fill to my unhallowed gut.

But whence came all this sustenance?
Vegetables and all harvest-ready crops,
Wherefore arose the herds that yield us milk?
And we, whose duty looks simply to eat,
Could we not be grateful as by His will,
We may, ourselves, have been food for others?