Tiempo Muerte, 2

The dead season. 

It is earth retiring 
in the deep of the night
awaiting what awaiting can
even as man, woman, child
dream of fitful sleep
for filling up their belly
with well water
from the promise of spring
long gone, the heavens having dried up
from the heat of summer
the dead season brings. 

The night is heavy,
its weight on the shoulders
of workers with hands
pawned each day
each day of grief.

What toil what love
what freedom we have
in harvests that do not claim us
in harvests that are not ours?
What right what duty what care
is in the earth wretched as wretched can be
the heat the fire that makes the rage
leaving behind what prayer can do
what redemption can and cannot do
to turn the workers' sweat into wine
this want this need this starving
into one of  meeting in abundance?  

And the food aplenty
in the hungered wakefulness
that has no name
in the famished serving 
that has no aroma no shape 
no color no taste no bitterness
no one will partake of this mistake:
those who go the way of feasting
are all gone, dead.
We give the food offering:
it is dusk. It is late.

A. Solver Agcaoili
Hon, HI/Feb 10/09

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