The field is vast, like the plains
it has plowed up, but holds no
real beauty, and no sense of nurtured
life is present in this land of alien crop.
A great construction, a sprinkler,
spans far, but the men pushing it don't
seem to blink, and the sky has not a
cloud above, the dirt below no feel.
Odd constructions whose shape does
not match the land, driven by men
who have never ridden horse or truly plowed, run
through the open air like great beasts.
When the rain falls, it falls with reluctance,
for it goes not to life, not to growth
in the way only the rain and sun and earth can know,
but to a bizarre, strange, hungry mouths.
What must man do, if anything?
Surely no one really knows.
Rubber and steel rumble over the ground,
but do not ever really see it below.
Fools you are who have seized the land,
hoping to gain, knowing you will gain,
regardless of what happens to a people
and a world around you: go to sleep!
Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! Now the ground
will speak only very softly, like a lover
that has been beaten mercilessly by
her favorite, for no reason at all.
You know what you have done,
and you are at peace with yourselves,
as expected, but that does not mean
others are at peace with you.
Despite the efforts of the many,
the other remains, and will remain
so long as there is not a Sahara in the
making, already, dust.
Crops grow tall, life comes again,
fields once fallow are rustled by the wind;
and the warm summer comes down,
with it comes the new dreams of the future.
© Copyright 2016 Three Shirts Too Many. All rights reserved.
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