The sun shines,
in a lusterless, old wash-water way,
on the fields and old farm houses.
The wind drives the dead leaves to frenzy,
the husks tap out their morse-code melody,
and the air carries the whispered ballad of the corn fields.
“You don’t want to go in there,”
cries the old scarecrow,
“No one walks in these fields.”
The heady fragrance of autumnal musk
is heavy on the breeze;
the tassels wave--
old women beckoning any visitor to their table.
Dense clouds of flocking birds fill the sky
as they call out their Janusian message:
“Come, come lose yourself in the maze, swim in the golden sea.
Run, run to where the land is barren and the path is clear before you.”
The corn, warm and inviting, sighs,
filling the air with the language of the Earth,
words unheard since the Beginning.
Stalks rising, stretching to brush the face
of the gently waning daylight.
Wiping away any trace of the outside world.
“Get out,”
cries the old scarecrow,
“There may still be a chance.”
A tremor runs through the fields--
fields no more--
oceans, mountains, forests, rivers, seas of cruel, cold-hearted corn
rush upwards, colliding with the dome of the quickly darkening biosphere.
“You’re not the first to be lost to this field,”
cries the old scarecrow,
“And you won’t be the last.”
The wind shrieks through the corn,
carrying the roar of a language all its own.
A language unheard since the Beginning.
