When the fields went from green

To a deep rusty red, we had no one

To blame. Nature was going about her business,

As would we. We were innocent,

As far as the world was concerned.

We were only passing by, and saw.


When the gun permits' circulation

Ran vaster than before, and the guns themselves

Flew off the shelves, we were still

Innocent. White. Pure. People were dying,

But only because their passing was loud,

And no one quite knew

How to block bullets.


Machines are easier to excuse

But still the poet struggles. Can she change

Fate? Can she morph man into mechanics?

And without words, is there a difference

Between colours, between right, wrong

And people who pass, and people who slip

Away, unnoticed and untouched?


Will we hold up the same boards

When winter rolls into spring, because

The change is sudden, the change

Brings shock? Will we writhe in protest

When the gods give rain, or take hunger

In exchange for a little monetary gain?

Or is that kind of change

Fine? Because we can control it,

And bargain our way through it,

And come out stronger than before.

Much better than we could with

Rusty fields.