|The Mag : Image by Musin Yohan|
A harsh wind blew across the burning field,
It untied her hair, sans her own knowledge,
Sweat mixed evenly with her tears,
Yet the hands never stopped its destined motion,
It endured the wind, the Sun and the life.
The hay that fed on the Sun's angry fever,
Rested lifeless on her head, she poached
For all her resilience, took it out and placed
It above the stuffed up hay. It clouded her
Thoughts so that she never saw her husband
And how he were as alive as the hay.
It never moved her mind to see the uncultivated
Fields, the waterless canals, the bottomless wells
And the endless Sun. She saw it all in her beloved's
Pale eyes. It hugged her each night, and its warmth
Betrayed her and her eventful plans.
Last night the eyes forgot its hug, rather, it made
Her cold. All the years of being loved seemed
To be lost in the deep labyrinths of solitude that
Laid before. She saw herself planted in the fields,
A lonely crop that no one cared to water.
No one carried coffins of the peasants,
No one cared to grant them a peaceful rest,
With the shovel, that granted seeds life,
She gave her husband a loving goodbye.
Before the harsh winds blew and the field burned,
The shovel dug up a hopeful canal, and the stacks
Of hay carefully carried, busied her quivering mind,
Her hair, carefully tied by her beloved was undone,
It swung along, with the melancholy winds.