rice

once were we noble among rice fields
with a single grain enough to yield
the masses. banana leaves were plenty;
we placed them over our palms with a
a handful of rice that sustained us
from typhoons, under all that inglorious
rain. the rice was sufficient. sticky.
sweet. we were content. we thought it
was ample. the sacks were endless. still,
poverty wanted more from us. deliberate.
discontent. the hunger dug deeper into the
conscience until soul, spirit sacrificed
to no limits… the rice tasteless in our
mouths. we now know, no rain can wash it down.