Poetry in Narrative.

Addressing the Wheat.

Addressing the Wheat.

Inside the Chiefs chamber we reside.

The strong, bold and cunning,

each taking up a side.

Thoughts pounding like a hammer,

and the nails driven, our heads.

We stood alone and yet as one

as they contaminated things long spread.

While we stood there upright,

the strong clamored for their place.

Was it out of contention?

Or the smugness of their self

proclaimed superior race.

I laughed five thousand times,

and then I laughed some more.

Who were they to indulge their feasting

upon my memories open floor?

I spoke in turn addressing the Wheat

that grew and grew and grew.

They knew me not, but soon enough

would hear all the words I threw.

'Yesterday grasp seemed so far away;

no-one could ever reach in.

Knew it held a special meaning,

walking past those veils dimmed.

Nurtured every planted seed then sat waiting,

witnessed them all sprout,

and all the while yesterday screamed,

"Move away and get out."

But how could we run with nowhere to go?

And why would we anyway?

We grew up on the same porous ground,

that molded those pots of clay.

It set our teeth on edge with its bitter water still,

we drank it just the same.

Watched those stalks grow into something

pushing against their own forgotten shame.'

Again, Who were we anyways?

Watching them sway alongside their wall?

I'll tell you, few in number we were;

working, as they retreated to withdraw.

Our faces fell blank and cold,

watching the rising sun as it warmed once again.

We knew the number and felt the day closing,

on a hollowed, victorious win.

The horns rose and sounded like a fiery furnace

being stoked as they were played.

Then before our wandering ears

the Chief stood up and with it, waved.

"To the day, this hour

we have witnessed those that stayed.

Those, who long sought through justice

our now being saved.

And now through accord and memory

they shall swim once more,

before this day has come to a close,

there shall also be a thousand more."

Then he sat down on his throne

as the wind began to blow.

And the wheat that wasn't faded away

in order for that thousand to grow.

If memories desist and time doesn't exist,

then who were we to be called?

We were nothing more than humbled fields

being constantly galled.

We held our ground, stood fast and firm

to those same blowing winds.

Sometimes we even sang alongside it

as it took us for a spin.

But we never gave up, nor did we surrender

into its desired needs.

We simply stood knowing that time

would reconcile our pleads.

A.o.R.