in the homelands
there was doubt and grief.

doubt and grief are not empty things.
not hollow passing moments
carried in sacks.

in the villages there was betrayal,
a driven spectacle.
racked in the hours of hard labor, hard sweat,
the vision of blood soaking into the soil.

upon the lands
of the sweetest apples,
of gathering storm
and blood rescinded
void of worth,
they stood as distant witness
to wealth and privilege,
brothers in hunger.

as soft whole things
blood and hunger are currency
spent reviving,
making soaking ground fertile,

at its ending with hammer and lance,
all that was humanly vital,
brought perfect rains to a restored country,
showing us as passing storm,
balance restored,
our blood's rescinded relief, valued.

they bleed now our blood.