In the palm of your hand, exquisite craftsmanship,
On the clay lathe, carved verdant sculptures.
In dreams, the river of longing flows,
In your heart, the fire of pain glows.
You are the crucified Jesus of the green fields.
In every fiber of your being, etched
The history of unspoken pain.
With the tender grace of moonlight, you seek
To repay the sun’s eternal debt.
Now faded in the scent of paddy,
The soulful fragrance of your essence.
Death is your silent resentment.
Illuminated by the lamp’s flicker,
Hanging on the pole of electric wires,
The corpse of civilization.
Yet you will return, and soon,
As sunlight, as flowers,
As a river, lighting up the world,
Stirring rhythm in the violated bosom of the earth.
You are the crucified Jesus of the green fields.
(In memory of the farmers who, burdened by debt, took their lives, on the occasion of Good Friday)