THE CHATTER OF GRASSES (IF GRASSES COULD TALK)

The sun shone with fierceness and the grasses groveled in pain – not out of desire, but due to the acceptance of what fate had offered them. The land was hot and uncomfortable, like it always was. And seeking relief from their fate, or a sense of mock-happiness, they binged on air-alcohol.

 

The alcohol flowed all around and within them. It tossed them about with the edginess of merriment. The more they drank, the more they let their lips loose.

 

“We are not even green anymore like we were born to be,” one of them complained.

 

“You are right, wise one!” Another agreed. “We’ve turned pale from the burning of life.”

 

“Life is not the evil one,” a frail grass groaned from the end of the field, “it’s those ones.”

 

All the grasses turned to where he had gestured to with his head. Right in that corner stood the noticeable grasses. They were big, wild and plump; with sharp and merciless blades on their sides, while they broke forth on every side.

 

“They are too wild and loud,” commented one of the pale ones that groveled on the earth. “They drown out our voices and ignore our reality!”

 

“Yes!” Another agreed. “They are the major cause of all our problems!”

 

“How do you mean?” One asked.

 

“Oh look!” came the reply. “Consider it for yourself: they use their positions and heights to take all of God’s sunlight, leaving us with nothing left; but to dry up in their shadows. How do we live well without energy? Is there photosynthesis without sunlight? We are growing pale everyday.”

 

The drunk grasses nodded to the words, in sync with the tossing of the evening breeze.

 

“When visitors come here,” the former grass continued, “they cut them with their wild blades. They pursue them with their unhealthy ways. Hence, the only thing the foreigners do is run amok over us. They trample us into the dirt of the earth. They till our earth for crude underneath and cast us away like rubbish; as if, we too, are not God’s creation.

 

“Those slave masters who rule over us are heartless! Words alone cannot describe the truth!”

 

Everyone remained still. Only the rustling gulping of the air-alcohol filled the land.

 

“We are from a unique land,” one of them finally said. “We are from a great and unique land! However, the challenge here is that the parts that are great are not unique and the parts that are unique are not great!”

 

He paused, gulped the air and rustled on:

 

“60% of our graduates are unemployable! I doubt other lands are that bad. Our life expectancy is so short, because nobody cares to harness the natural gifts around us for our good. Our land gets dug daily by foreigners seeking oil at the risk of our children’s lives…our growth is stunted! Look at all of us! We only grovel on the ground for the lack of education on how to grow…”

 

The grass paused and refrained himself from further speech. Others seemed to regurgitate his words some more. Afterwards, the grass spoke again:

 

“Our green land has turned arid.” He paused and let out a sigh.

 

“What really is our destiny? Shall we die like this? Is this really our end?”

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