The migration season ended,
only feathers cling to the reeds.
Carts have rolled past this land,
grooves now swallowed by dust.
The wind hums through empty furrows,
where harvest songs once lingered.
Seeds lie unsown beneath the chill
the hands that knew this soil
have long moved on.
The old heron said, the skies won’t open again,
the clouds forgot this stretch of earth.
The soil turned to memory,
its pulse too faint for new roots.
To leave, one must pay in grain,
but nothing grows, and nothing remains to trade.
With no ploughs to carve new furrows
no seed with teeth sharp enough for stone.
The wind carries maps of greener fields,
but their script lost to this barren tongue-
no message travels here,
no signal finds a pulse.
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140,210 Literary Works • 673,042 Reviews
So I read this and was concentrating on rhythm and stuff, without really understanding the meaning but then this comes:
and suddenly everything feels so much more sinister. As if the land itself is keeping the people trapped. And it’s …lonely now. And sad. I peeked at the other review to see if I’m missing something and well, I do see the interpretation about culture and seasonal change but I actually thought more about people working for a feudal lord and unable to pay them because of a bad harvest or maybe because the land changed so much that nothing can grow there anymore…Took me 4 reads to soak it all in. Wow.
This speaks to me in such a deep way. Its such a profound echo of the cultural, ethnic, diasporic ties of the people. Its that feeling of a home that once was, the home that isn't, and the home that always will be. Its history, heritage and home all tied up in one.
Its fitting that you used the village and agricultural seasons/cycles as a measure of time that has passed, because the Hindu calendar does the same and it is these months counted in vernacular that we've grown up on. Brilliant how you used the old heron like a parallel of the village elder who is the last relic remaining of a vibrant, distant past. This is not like a rot, but rather like the slow fade of the tinge of painted pots into a low hue. One day it'll be brown, and chipped.
The land is rich and fertile, but there is no plough nor any weathered hand that will sow again.
Very beautiful descriptive piece. Amazing job done <33333
Thank you for the review <3