Feebly Long-Lived Poem by polash datta

All villages on the earth are short-lived like spring today. All villages
on the earth are reticent like a true poet today. If the truth of grabbing
and destruction is felt happens such? Here’s no verandah
to contemplate in leisure of utmost corn-seed even after the land
is shattered by ridge-trap. With the vanity of the field
only earth’s rice from village to village. That zeal isn’t seen in the craze of murder
Farming is on in villages kilometers after kilometers, as the earth has to eat
Those village-peasants haven’t forgot
The taste of first grain is rare in all countries.

All villages are evicted, as they are vile. Our village also like that
has given space to advertisements on walls and towers on boughs of grain
won’t broke up at earthquake, won’t be damped in rain.
Developers have given all these delight to the villagers without any benefit
All those towers filled with people
swing in wind as if flower spike of green corns. Sometimes get afraid.
Would poison be healed by poison one day. Would there be surgery
in womb of the human who hundred times clever than crops. Eating the wind
will they build tower in space? Would veil the land of earth
by tower higher than Everest? Or would make bridge between
heart and hunger?

Grains murdered by those towers would come by wings of memory
and fill hunger of earth’s human? Or human will keep on spreading with
wish of water-dropp from village to village. From field to field. From rice to rice.
To our field that’s still enduring alone in wilderness?

What so ever, if happens so?

Village that got human’s footprint became short-lived like moment
became obsolete red sun like in spring

Quarrel is on in the earth: villages colorful like spring and angry but
veracious like poet have to be occupied. Watching taste of food on TV
unceasingly, food is set in womb as stone. Green flower spike of grain, golden light of mustered seed in day of the new moon all are memoirs today.
Our village
is dead in earth’s hand at four years old infancy

Yet ever-youthful like spring. Short-lived. Yet true like poet. Yet
it’s reticent in uproar scurrility from memory to memory. As all
gratified history of existence. As all these vile people of village
even just before the moment of death