They put our fields, our orchards, to the flame.
They built walls around the ashes as a warning.
The signs they hung, “the strong rule this place” was their claim,
but we were farmers, patience is core of our being.
We knew what they knew not, so with peace offering,
planting seeds, shading streets of their capital with verdant leaves
They called us fools, thought we stupid for quietly suffering…
what sort of farmer plants fruit trees instead of weeping their griefs?
it took them years to notice the roots
sprouting forth from crack and cobble
consuming the battlements, watchtowers, such zealous shoots
clambering, growing, struggling, unstoppable…
until their castle, their fortress, their factories of war
crumbled, undone, and fell,…no more.
We farmers, simple yet strong, left this walls of trees
around the ruins as a warning, “here we are free.”