You who approaches to arrest my organs from the village air. You will kill me. There’s no stopping you right now. Your thirst is still wide. You want to volcano blood on this valley. But even the might of night has an end. And my soul will float. I beg of you this: please drop the grenade of hatred in your mind and remember how you once listened to your mother’s beating heart when she breastfed you. Kindly accept this murdered man’s offer: you may not proffer but look after my farm till you are grey. The taste of juicy pears when ripe is a reminder for one’s being that it’s undeniably alive. I urge you to use my shabby shed to make ciders and watch the vast sky mellow pink in summer. I promise you my ghost will float and enjoy the fragrance of the vegetables you plant.
