poem "like sati widows"

when the fields are abundant with rye sad as children,
    and the crops sing like Sati widows
    the most depressive tune of all.
when the rotting forage of all the ages
  bear witness
    to the coming of the hoarfrost holocaust,
one shall reap --- maybe ----

   or not.

    burn all bridges behind you ---
       scorch the earth
       and your dying fields 
    with ...lightning
    ...and with pesticides;
strike the mills
    and the guilds of workers
    with the furor of a tyrants' hand
and let loose the livestock
   to graze, mate, and walk about freely
   in the shadowlands of the world
   amongst the werewolves, the frowned lepers,
   and the gloomy spirits of the woodlands ---
       sweeping eerily,
       ravenous, and as fierce as the love for death. 
  
the reaping
the threshing
and the winnowing
   of this vast soil --- call it the plateau of life ---
   will be useless
   in the absence of an absolutely godlike effort
and this insight alone
   begs the question of the worthiness of it all,
   and puts on trial
   the notion  
   of the 'intrinsic' honorability of existence
   we have been fed
   with the milk of a mothers' love.

    your soil is yours ---

the murder of oneself
is surely a way to harvest ---
the reaping
   of yet another human life