Mother

Yellow, blue, white and gold, crown the mountains, dress the rivers. Mother, O mother, you are we— a veil of stars, the sun your bindi. Can I breathe the fragrance of your soul? Shall I taste the mangoes you cradle close? yet you smile, yet you nurture, and yet, you provide. But is this what we have become— to question your wrath, to feast on your flesh, to drink of your blood, and bind you in chains? Yet the chains are only shadows, illusions we have drawn. You are the creator, and so you devour. We are nothing; you are whole. We pierced your heart and bled you deep, dried your veins and left you bare, forgetting that the hand which feeds shall one day dig our grave. What am I without you? But you shall remain without me. We are but manure for your saplings, fuel for the lives you cradle. And still, with all our frailty, we preach: “We are the protectors of the green.” But it is greed we offer as devotion, and blindness we choose for sight.