It’s a silent field, where the crops sway to the whims of the wind, and yet do not reveal that which lies amongst them, a silent desire to topple the very corridors of red tape that have left them like this. It hides away soaring adrenaline, misdirected passion and a fraternity based on ideals that will wash away like the soap on a greasy hand. One scarred being, one uniting cause, will bring together a potentially fruitful bunch of young turks, who will dance to the boding of impending victory and slurp the water that drips from the ice of cold revenge. Share their histories they will, and indeed shall they find a uniting theme, a reason to call the other one a brother. A mother will wipe off the sweat from the the corner of her brow, as she stirs the cauldron, cooking everyday, a little more than necessary, lest he return unannounced. He carries around with him the sparkle of his mother’s eye, the hope of a sister’s bosom.
It has set him free, for his angst has new-found direction. It is here that he is respected, revered, seen as a the harbinger for the change that has been looming large over the land. For on his shoulders rest the visions of the generation that now sips chai on wicker chairs, and talk of days when it used to be different. He is giving himself up, that he may be worshipped, but those that shall worship him may never be born.
There may never be a new day. The dark of the night may just be cover for the blindness that would slowly creep in. Surreptitiously, it would tread, and cover the mind with a veil impregnable, that would seem only as dark as the skin of the eyelids. And then the wait would begin, and everyone would be on their feet, faced east. They would simply wonder, and think it was only winter. And the chirps of the waking birds and the clinks of wielded swords would march through the air, and they would sink to their knees, earthworms crawling across the black mud, toes drowned deep in the dewy loam. With outstretched hands they would grope for their brothers, and with cries of help beg for mercy, all the while the doubt would eat away what remained of the curious heads. Years of preaching, along with dreams encased in castings of crude metal, would be hacked off with no mercy in sight. And the birds would chirp away, the sunlight would sieve through the canopies of the wild woods, and crops would part like the oiled hair on his head, the day his mother last saw him.
(Image credits: panoramio.com)