(picture from Glogster Edu )
How red the field you’ve been lying on? How
dried the dust upon your mucus?
Was the funeral affluent for the soul who
had cultivated the wild land through his whole life for the sake of every
creature on earth?
Besides, I need to say some words. No
matter how humble the funeral was, it is all over. As the solely witness of his
death, here I call to remembrance the day.
The smell of the early morning – when the
prelude of tragic was desperately played for the creatures who can’t hear it
close – raised people up enforcing to live the next day. They pivot around a
clock, unlikely to any other creature. Cloudy sky didn’t mean it, but you were
the one who was fooled by the humid soil.
Oh people, the giant creatures! They were
thoughtless and careless enough to murder the little brittle life. Two hundreds
of legs passed on you, beating the earth mercilessly, haughtily and lazily.
From a far distance, they came closer and closer to let you abhor. They were
idle but expedite as a battalion marching over a naïve, peaceful village.
Once, the body might be crushed, though the
mighty soul won’t submit to the pain. You wrinkle celestially and it belies the
spectator to believe you are praising the holy God with your entire body. Yes,
you truly are praising the God! Sublimating your agony, ordeal to laud! Exhale
that you yet still alive! – And thank God, the violent tremble was shown to the
dull people who only can run around the red circles.
Twice, the body might be torn and ripped as
numerous soles stabbed the same section without ill will – which makes it more
evil. Steadily, slowly, the red body which is not more reddish than any blood,
but more than the field. The body would never bounce in grace of the Nature, or
in the pain of the life, and stay still until it recover and heal.
Thrice, the body might be sleeping and
dreaming his dark wet home deep inside the ground. Clitellum fades to ivory
white, yet the body darkens to brick red. Just a few feet afar from your haven,
and just a few hours left to enter the heaven, the color of your pain will be
blurred with some tiredness and the smell of the death will be changed into
comfort.
And a feeble hand may take a branch and
poke, not to torture but to convey her sorrow, and lift the light being to lie
on the earth. You were stronger than the hand, enduring all the insult everyone
had spit. Though the incompetent hand can’t give you another life, and the
unclever brain won’t mourn for seven days, but they would be grateful to their
left chances.
