Rays of the Sun

The light that falls from above
in the quiet hours between dawn and dusk
preys on every sector of land equally as much;
it fell on the fields that came in the way,
on my ancestral lands of fertile plains,
and on water that stood still in the leys.
This was the time when the sun was enraged:
reaching the hands as warm, orange-tinted rays
that infused into the skin and hair 
and glowed from within until a shelter was sought
away from the warmth 
that induced a sense of desperation and trance,
and caused sickness in the young.

The path that I took home had the sun overhead;
graced with shade, a path was laid,
the burden was left for the trees to bear.
I walked along, with a channel of cars
nervously but, as they went past
leaving a tunnel of sound 
that we were condemned to hear,
and fear for our lives, amongst the horns.

Not much had changed in the century that’d passed:
we would walk back and forth
on the land that’d succumbed to drought,
in our village up north;
It would rebel as airborne dust
that entered our homes and inflicted the lungs
of our elders that’d settled here from ways afar, 
and sought solace in labour and bread,
and a seldom pipe with an old acquaintance they met.

The boys went to school on foot,
wearing their lunches on the back, 
a metal case with books in hand, 
wearing leather shoes fastened by a thread
which were kept loose to let the foot fold and move.
There was sand in the ditches that came in the way, 
which would warm up under the sun by midday.
They’d plunge in the ditches and make their way home— 
the sand would get in the shoes,
and burn their soles.
The rashes that came along, they’d have to bear
all-summer long, all for the shorter path sought.

Today, there’s no real weight on the back, 
or rashes on the soles,
I too once wished to grow old;
forgoing getting drenched in the rains of July, 
the summer break, the evening walks, 
staying up past dawn;
forgoing events where my presence was required, 
perhaps by a child that I would foster with someone—
I would’ve run past the very essence of life.

I saw a bright, shining star once,
the one I learned to want to become,
so I made the run— 
I went past all routes of doom that came along,
until the sudden downpour
that put my run to halt;
in my break it was that I outgrew instinct
as my limbs grew sore.

I thought of all paths I never walked, 
and all paths that led me in this realm of shade.
There was a hierarchy to being, 
the primordial order, of which we were part.
It was a harmony which sheltered some
and exposed some to stark-midday sun;
neither were spared, the adults or the young, 
from ailment, or hunger, thirst, or disease,
or blisters in the feet, when walking home.
The people in shelters saw it all, 
and decided not to revolt,
instead they fenced open-yards, 
and invented sport—
which distracted them from guilt
of possession and dominion,
and inaction against prejudice.

When I opened my eyes, I could no longer walk,
or see, or properly breathe, but I’d started to weep.
I heard voices in the distance 
of a dissonant, morbid choir, and a narrator to my right.
He told me of the path ahead, the one I never led.
The man had walked past the tree where I laid, 
past the choir, and blistered his feet in the way.
He’d seen the light, 
and the world beyond,
he’d now come to rest by me side
in his final days, for here it is perpetual night.

I told him of the things I’d seen
in my sleep, he barely sighed.
By the end, my voice grew sore, 
I couldn’t talk, so I held onto his arm,
I felt as if he was pushing me for another run
aimed towards the light;
he made me believe that I wasn’t fully blind
and that I still had time.

I still had his hand in mine
when he began to grow cold, 
as his final effort, he pushed me onto the course.
I tumbled down the hill, 
screaming with fright, a final-goodbye
to the man that pushed me back onto the path,
despite knowing that I’d lost the light of my eyes.

My fate was prolonged by a couple moments,
as I dragged myself onto the path,
and began moving in the direction of warmth,
feeling the same-old sand that once burnt my paws
and robbed me of ambition, 
it had preyed on me for long.

My robe had started to tear apart,
and expose the skin;
with my hands burnt, I sensed the impending:
my movement came to halt
and I started to sink, and my upper half too burnt
as I was engulfed by the earth.
That was how the sand preyed:
blistering the soles, killing ambition, 
then feeding on rotten, complacent blood.