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


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