Slashed throats, severed limbs,
Some heads no longer sitting on the necks,
The flood of hot blood
Ferrying away the topsoil
Of this rice plantation
Turned into an abattoir
By mad men of terror,
And a score of vultures
Lurking around to embark
On the feast of their lives
Sum up the gory sight
Of hundreds of rice growers
Hacked down in their prime
Like unwanted trees in a demonic bush.
Blame the dead for walking into their deaths.
On this farm that feeds the land,
Fresh blood blends with grime
Of dry leaves and legumes
Flowing freely like a river
Into the gully footpath
That leads to the village square
Where fresh widows and orphans
Are presently singing a dirge,
The unending dirge for a troubled land.
Blame the dead for walking into their deaths.
From the secret thickets,
Where they are concealing their shame
Like ostriches burying their heads in sand,
The mighty *khaki boys harp the blame
On the powerless growers for bypassing them
Without getting a pass to their farm
While their herdsman, perched on rocky pride
Dispatches ominous tidings, a threatening refrain
Of condolences laced with condemnation.
Shame on them for blaming the dead!
* Khaki boys means soldiers
(c) F. Mosh
