Diaspora
the pomegranate crushed underfoot is empty of its blood-red juice. careless harvesters do not know “unless a seed fall and die…” uninformed they stripped the land. one small field now is bare, but all the earth the blood received; absorbed the tears, the blood, the pain. blind marauders could not envision life springing forth, imagining it dead and gone. all-wise Vinedresser sympathetically tending sees; finally the soil watered with tears no longer red, but greening....