When I was a child,
I often played in the field,
played with mud there,
ran on the rice fields,
on the vast expanse of rice,
birds were flying,
chirped sweetly,
the air was fresh,
the smell of dew,
the sun's light was so beautiful shining on a hopeful face,
sweat pouring down,
hope the harvest can go well.
But when I grew up,
I saw that many rice fields became high-rise office buildings,
company factories.
People lost their fields,
were sold to the powerful.
They say,
for development,
for common prosperity.
But,
they destroy the environmental order, waste is scattered,
the soil is completely damaged and excavated.
They displace,
drive away.
They say this is our land.
They are the rich.
Who can manage everything.
This poem was written because of the many problems experienced in the government of my country. People oppress with power. Money has always been a tool to make everything attainable, regardless of other people, regardless of the environment. The peasants, never prosperous, never independent. Rich people set prices, then looked for bigger profits. So sad, even having to import rice, they said, is not enough food needs.
Indonesia, 18th April 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
