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When they ask what has become of you, what will we say? We sowed, but we have yet to reap.
We want to get for our give. You have grown big on our sweat, and your leaves are a bright green. Your trunk is thick and hard. But where are your fruit?
They all saw us tending you, breaking our backs to shield you from the sun, swallowing our saliva and watching with hunger-dimmed eyes while you ate the food of our sacrifice. The words on our lips were a prayer: ‘she will feed us someday. She will bear fruit and feed us someday.’ Someday has come.
It is harvest time, but now we have found ourselves in the company of those who did not sow. We are all chewing the insides of our cheeks together. The others say nothing, but they do not need to; their eyes do the talking. They ask: where is this harvest that was prophesied to come? We have no answer.
Have you made us into fools? The visions we had, of all the things you would bring for us, make of us, have they now turned around to mock us, dancing with teasing steps far beyond our reach? Have we spent our strong years trying to make a basket hold water?
Revive us. Raise our heads. We have done our part.
It is harvest time.