Writer Between Worlds

this year, the soil too needs to rest: 
it needs silence, space, slumber. 

the furrows have covered their zillion ears 
with blankets of untaintedness and are frozen:  

flat white flags spread over the landscape, 
pierced by last year's severed stalks. 

deaf to the bombs and the bullet-words and the bluster,
the grabbing and the coveting and the chest-beating,

the earth buries noise-makers, chest-beaters and 
mute sowers alike, alongside the soft-spoken poets. 

it gobbles them all up. wet humus, 
what shall we reap? 

the snow is meant to keep the sown seed safe 
from the sharp beaks of metal birds and crushing  

crawlers. but

the snow is thin and it  
is softly melting. 

this year, the soil needs to breathe,  
and moans and murmurs softly.