Many years have carved these slopes.
It was around this time in March when
North wind tarried on, defying summer thirst
And a thousand shoots of green rejoiced.
They’d passed the test, and cried for joy, and raced uphill.
And we, who nurtured them, were about to shout
Our wildest greetings when the thought struck us:
Titled erudites in robes they’re not,
But nonetheless, proud gracile barefeet
Children thinned by drought and scarred by storms
Who volunteered to scale the heights
And scatter raging monsoon winds,
Though they bend and break in shadow.
Soon and gently, they will carpet the land
In crimson fruit and golden grain from ridge to coast.
And yet we’re not even allowed to write their names.
19 March 2014
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