The Fields

Sun-baked bodies inch along the furrowed rows

of green and sunset colored crops.

Music drifts to the sky,

prayers wrapped in melody,

praise wrapped in harmony,

in the key of hard lessons

of a mortal life as yet

unbalanced

by deliverance and freedom.

 

The ones who fall are mourned,

and the ones who come into the world

are celebrated in songs of hope and joy,

but rocked to sleep in knowing silence…

The terror of the tyranny of those others,

thunderclouds

that break in torrents of hate,

raining blood that cries out from the ground

in streaks of upward lightning.

 

The old hands, bereft of strength, yet full of wisdom,

clasp the hands of their descendants, and pass

the tools and torches

of their endurance,

as they surrender themselves,

releasing their souls.

 

They wait to welcome us again,

and walk the fields of open sky,

unconfined, unbound by furrowed roads,

free to hold hands once more,

free to love,

and truly

free.