Gen Cannibals Poem by Mill Field

Below the once proud forests of prolific sal and teak
The land is having its heart torn out
By desecrating multi-nationals and local profiteers.

On steep hill-slopes, over-laden trucks grind laboriously upwards in low gear;
Head-swathed men, lungi clad, vests black-stained with sweat and grime,
On the same slopes struggle to escape the nadir of poverty.

Heads down, gasping, backs bent, muscles tense for maximum thrust they toil
To feed the insatiable maws of a greedy city and even greedier people.

In the incredibly hot sun, a daily twenty miles of hell and seven of these at hell's worst;
A labour of love indeed, induced by respect for self and duty towards families.

Below and atop the hilly slopes,
Thin, brightly clad, dark-visaged women pull grasses from far-stretching
fields of paddy;
Grandmothers, daughters, grand-children all labouring in the midday sun;
Theirs, too, a labour of love for families must be fed whatever the cost.

Those sinisterly dextrous with shares and stocks,
Those sitting in air-conditioned offices,
Those enjoying luxuries engendered by money and power,
Wasteful of energy as much as of fine rice and over-rich foods set upon their groaning tables,
Do they ever think or care that they are eating the heart of the land,
Washing their hands in the life-blood and sweat of its peoples?

Neither thinking nor caring a damn.......are they. Cannibals.