The Song of the Earth
Your land weeps with you.
Your parched farmland cries out for the elixir of life. Your beloved soil is arid and wounded, ceding to its fate. A fate tied so closely with yours. You die as your land dies. You know you are doing what should not be done. Eating the seed that must be sowed.
You watch as the truck arrives, and the trees are chopped down. You know they will create unimaginable luxury for people far away.
Your people join you. They gaze up too. The night has fallen. The stars emerge, magical and lustrous. It is a full moon night. The cool, serene luminescence cascades on you as if to soothe your angst. You almost sense the fragrance of the jasmine flowers, caressed by the moon. You try not to peer into the broken earth, and the precious seeds lying there.
Your heavy eyes turn towards the dry riverbed. You close your eyes and see the little boy that you were, gleefully watching your paper boats sail away into the unknown future. The water nurtured your people. Your parents and other farmers prayed to their pagan Gods on this river bank. They offered obeisance as the sun rose each morning. Your wandering, listless eyes rest on the depleted sand bed.
You see the digger truck standing there, menacing, taking more than nature could offer. The river was furious. The river was helpless. The river cried. The river shed an unending stream of tears. Until it was dry.
It was the night to appease the rain Gods. You watch the men, women, and children walk toward the riverbed. You know a tiny sliver of hope drives them through their desperation. They sit on the sand bed, their quaint chants hoping to coax life out of the dying river. Their hopelessness calls to the sky to shower upon them its precious bounty.
You watch as their hearts pour out through the tears in their eyes. You look up at the sky. Will the Gods hear their plea?
You see the trucks leave. You know they have nothing more to gain here. They have sucked the land and waters dry.
You watch the tree cutters leave. There are no more trees to cut. You wish this would at least deter your people from giving up their lives when their lands gave up on them. You know the pain of hopelessness. You know how many times you have walked up to those trees, a rope in your hand. You know your people shared a strange kinship with those trees. You mourn their loss.
You hear the child say, “It will rain tonight.”
You wish the child’s words would come true.
The child cries joyfully. “I caught a drop of rain!”
You look up at the dark clouds gathering. A drop falls on your parched lips. Bliss!
The drops mingle with your tears. You find yourself dancing in the rain with your people.
Your land weeps with you.
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