To Till the Land Until the End of Time
by Alyosha Trinidad
I follow the maps etched onto my palms,
Tracing from wrist to fingertip, I touch the lines
As boundless as the lands my ancestors had tilled
In the past, the present, and through the end of time.
I exhale a steady breath of cool air at the break of dawn,
Before the shadows of my elders fade outside our home
To plow the soil, plant the seeds, and harvest yesterday’s crops
A feast of which millions of families share and savor.
In the quiet evenings, a sigh is the first note of a lullaby,
As two pairs of hands, wrinkled and coarse from a hard day’s work
Tuck me in with the same hands that till the fields,
Determined but gentle; stiff but warm.
Upon my deepest slumber lies the greatest of my dreams,
To bring food to each table and uproot famine,
Chest filled with pride, hope etched on my lips; I say,
“My parents are farmers, and I, too, someday.”
Day after day, I let the heat of the sun seep into my skin
As I mow after my mother through hectares of greens.
The land is a sanctuary that’s ours to keep, a treasure
Coveted and seized by the glutton, with their insatiable greed.
Countless dawns have broken, many seasons have passed;
And I still sing along to every sigh of exhaustion at night.
More blood, sweat, and tears to shed; larger baskets to fill,
Yet fewer lands remain for those shadows at home to till.
Hectare by hectare, the greedy concretize the fields,
Drying the plains, devouring the harvest.
With its nourishment gone, the soil no longer embraces the seeds,
As towering pillars of stone sink into every crevice.
A mere penny for months’ worth of goods is all we’re forced to accept,
A desperate prayer for tomorrow’s supper is all that’s left to lament,
As it occurs to me that those who bring warmth to others’ stomachs
Have become a feast devoured by the very mouths they feed.
From one stolen land to thousands of stolen lives
Those of our kind and of the brave who speak with us.
I follow the lines etched deep onto my palms, reminiscent of the shadows,
Whose hands nurtured not only the heart of the soil but of mine as well.
I am a fruit of peasants, and I, too, shall sow
Hopes buried underneath the earth,
Until justice for the silenced begins to yield
Like seasoned crops they gather from the field.
I bow down in honor of those who tirelessly bow down
To plant grains and ensure that children are fed.
As their hands, worn and cracked, have tilled the earth so long
They’ve become part of the soil itself
Roots that will nourish the land long after they’re gone.
Those who were buried deep in the ground like seeds
Shall rise as a rich harvest that breaks through concrete pillars
That has taken root in the land they were born to till,
And plant a future that endures until the end of time.
