The Humble Life
History,
who writes it?
Not the farmer tilling
his thoughts at 5am,
letting the air of morning
seep between dreams
and the day to come.
No, he has mouths to feed:
hay for the horses,
grass for the cows,
a leftover carrot for his son.
Milk doesn’t flow on its own,
but through the dexterous rhythms
that practiced fingers play.
He scatters piles of seeds behind him,
hoping a few ears will grow.
He bends the water down the rows
dug beneath the relentless sun.
And if fruit yields, then he sings
and eats little, and plants more.
Where are the feathers for a quill?
On the chickens or in his pillows.
The ink he has to dip from
is as deep as his daily routine:
viscous, dark, and tough to remove,
a struggle even if it brings him joy.
He may write, but with his hands
and for the families he can touch
And he may speak, but his words,
like his efforts, take years to sprout.
So then, history,
who writes you?
While a learned man, twirling
a pen in one hand and time in the other,
types out the grievances of the past,
or the way old values are like rags
soaked and smelling of oil
ready to be burned
on the torch of progress,
while he cycles through tragedy and comedy,
like newly released plays
and mourns with one actor
and laughs at the next,
while the rich man pays no price
for publicity, but a smile,
and claims to be a savior
to far-off unseen lands,
while we listen to the news
and sift the truth with our shaking
and careful shucking of lies
or not, as we may in our idle stupor,
even now, as in ages past,
it is not wind trudging through
the corn fields and rice patties,
but men and women
who cover their heads for protection,
who sense the weather in their knees,
who know the weight of the seasons
because they carry on their shoulders
the silence of their ancestors,
too busy to speak to a deaf world
of their hard-fought happiness.
