furrows

Furrows, they dug; recklessly.

Few remember what the furrows divide.
In their depths, the seekers once sought:
how great was their strive– for a beginning, therefore, an end.
A trembling so unceasing that no one can recall its absence.

Calm were only the surveyors. With poles, they probed incessantly.
Poked and prodded. One, plump and squinting, shoved the comrade on the left.
Here, right here, you must tear. Here, the ground shall yield.
Take what I tell you: for years, decades, I’ve ploughed furrows. Then, just like now.
There, there you must plough, you must ruthlessly crush the soil. Until the wind scatters
the dust.

To forget.

But you don't listen. You believe– I'm still fresh, drained but slightly.
You believe–  my hours won’t slay me. To sway the mind from these trenches, to avoid
peering into the abyss, you drown your thoughts. You believe- tomorrow will be different.
Tomorrow will surely reveal what we're driving through this soil. Why we swallow dust. Why we cut
furrows.

You believe– soon I'll be a surveyor too, soon I'll record shallows (not dig like an idiot),
dig ditches that promise serenity.

The new one, seated in the dim room among the drunkards (where no one gains entry except the
assistant surveyors). Drowned: how lovely the intoxication.
There she sits now, contemplating the old one's words:

there, there you must plough, ruthlessly crush. Until when; she ponders.
How long must I wait to carve furrows into time.

It was tough. The indifference of the bystanders bore witness to the violence of aimless activity.
Purposeless, yet only in the eyes of the ignorant, as the scolding elders put it: We and the superiors,
those who are set to close their eyes before an undertaking grander than you and I. The superiors,
but above all, us, those who drill and tear, driving a wedge into depths loosely tied to meaning.

You must remember where to position the drill before thrusting it with force. Where the next hole
is to be placed. Should you fail to notice, you'll see how the drill grumbles. How it denies the integrity
of the narrative, stripping it of its course. To drive a hole into its simplicity, that's what propels us; what
delights the drill.

Remember it, you'll see, once the hole is gaping, emptiness stares bitterly cold. Eventually, you must
secure it with these poles. Secure. Do you hear? Growled the old man, struggling to retain his spit.

From watchtowers, erected here and there to survey the expanses,
they stare idiotically into these furrows. Below, someone sits, polishing coins he has pilfered from
those craving the view. Is he the builder of these towers? One asks, as he pierces his pockets. Wearily
responding, barely containing his disgust, the polisher sighs: Whether I build? Who dares to ask
questions. For it is questions that raised these gallows, that granted us looks into toothless depths.
I sit here alone and demand tribute.

Higher up, on the steps of the towers, vacant eyes stare.

The expanses ares marked with cuts, incisions that render it impossible to speak of wounds.

For the children, activities were few. They were expected to age. Some of the brazen ones engaged in
hesitant play. Forming in a covert half-circle, they erected a makeshift amphitheatre. Whatever they
found was put on display there. Occasionally, they sought to coax sluggish beetles into confrontation.
Barely encouraged, these insects hoarded their precious juices. When patience waned, some took it upon themselves to pass judgment. They let heavy stones fall, eager to crack the shells, and chunks flew. Those
among them, who endured attained a certain status. Modestly adorned, they were confined in soiled jars.

In a cluster of huts, on the edge of one of the furrows. In this hamlet, crudely assembled from tin cans,
many were once deprived of their children. As usual, the safeguards were inadequate. Weary signs,
toothpicks in mountains of dust. Two had already descended, slowly and stubbornly. Until finally, the
ground gave way entirely. It was the third that carried the sign away with her.

Thereafter, rumours simmered in pitiful pots. The shanties were involved in a constant procession.
What a wretched heap traversing the lands. When it was time to move, everyone reached for something. Corroborated metal, staring into the sun. So it moved, visible from afar, that metallic worm. Not even the
thinkers knew (least of all them) how many times they had already moved. It was the rumours that
made the tragedy bearable. They always promised – one last time you must move, leave us the land.
This furrow is the last, it will be done soon.

At first, the shanties were decent. Erected to shield from prying eyes, to preserve dignity, for reverence
toward that towering burden. The more often they were moved through the expanses, the cruder they
grew.

They all wanted to sit. Finally sit and stay, above all, stay. Some could not go on. So they stayed
(amid shouts and complaints, amid bitter accusations). At first, the admonitions were resounding,
brightly coloured anger. Later, no one could afford to settle the bill.

An endless list, a registry of the lost, lay exposed for inspection. Here, the willing enrolled themselves.
The only uncertainty was when their turn would come. It was said that only after the passing of an
accomplished surveyor could they move up in line. It was said that the examinations were gruelling.
Some settled beside the registry. Their beards grew wild like untamed foliage. In their eyes, pathos and malevolence resided. They regarded those who followed as the lowest rabble. As the greedy who dared
to claim their position. They drove some away with blows, while others waited until the anger subsided
to add their names to the list. To enlist, once they were old.

Yet, no one knew where the assistants came from. It was suspected that they were taken from another
time, or perhaps from another place whose whereabouts eluded knowledge. Insufficient as this answer
may have been, like any other, it was adequate to swallow, to be shoved down the palate. The extent of
the workforce was opaque. How many of them kneaded the soil, how many of them had dissolved into
furrows?

The mere fact that so many were devoted to this drive, meant it must be significant; rich in meaning.

The mottled uncertainty of the sky had long merged with the plain. Occasionally, clouds reached such
foolish proximity that some idle souls, in their attempts to seize them, would hoist themselves onto the
shoulders of others. They reminded them of an inherent ease, as if it were only a matter of capturing
them. They would harness the clouds, confine them in one of the carts. There, one could, perhaps,
surrender existence to levity: a cloud life, in that small enclosure where once cattle had roamed.
Such commotion swiftly dissipated. After all, tumult requires certain saturation, and in this regard,
no one had any cause for

complaint.