There is a tomato field that
is sorrowful to the universe
unable to lament though
it doesn’t yet know that
the farmer is dead.
The dust on the field
grew wings in the wind
and looking for its owner
settled down across the river
and the mountain valley.
The ripe tomatoes that incite
the outer reaches of the plants
to bend and touch the ground
are , on the other hand, wondering
why that guy is not rushing in
yelling at the trespassers.
The locusts, now sure that
the farmer is absent, gnaw
at the tomato leaves
with charged enthusiasm.
The moon in the night and
the sun during the day
stand mute witness
to the agony of the field.
Who will make these
tomato plants understand
that their God is dead and
he will never again
farm the land?
Or, let it be.
No need to tell them.
Let them remain ignorant.
Like how
the red tongue of the farmer
hanging out from his corpse
became distinctly visible,
let the ripe tomatoes too,
unplucked though ripe,
fall and decay in his field,
as distinct from
the body of the earth.
Translation Ra Sh
SIGN UP FOR COUNTERCURRENTS DAILY NEWSLETTER
