For Faltering Fields of Grain

Imagine free-falling from the mountainside to the earth.

Watch the trees die and woods stand still in mourning.

Can you feel that,

the tell-tale heart pitter-pattering with adrenaline?

Or is it nerves,

Burgeoning steal cables that spring from your soul, 

and cover the surface of your skin?

You feel every sting in the blemished wind.

 

The rocks grow taller and terrain rushes up to meet you.

The compassion of Mother Nature was there to catch you before.

Can you hear that,

Her faltering breaths and the creaks in the bones?

Or is it you,

Fading, fading, fading without her there,

Unable to live without her arms to cradle your metallic shape?

You will feel every sting when she is gone. 

 

Imagine swallowing the air that belonged to a great warrior.

It surrounds you, filtered and pure by her grace alone.

Can you see that, 

The smoke filling up her eyes, her lungs, her all?

Or is it poison,

Rushing down through the dry crevices,

cradling her bones and rotting her womb with finality?

She feels the sting of every industry. 

 

We cut into her belly and claw her insides out in elation. 

The spring of vitality is dried, leaving plastic rashes on the land.

Can you smell that,

the decay of the home of the brave?

Or are they naive,

to pollute, burn, pilfer, frack, mine, destroy, 

and leave barren the land of our Mother?

The country stings themselves. 

 

This poem is about: 
My country

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