I was once me,

the plain simple rice,

that lives in a warm bowl protected by other grains.

sometimes cooked, sometimes raw, sometimes burnt, but always me.

 

a grain was never meant to break

never meant to shred,

of all colors and never picky.

I thought I was always me.

 

but the farmer was not always Mother

And the farmer was not always Father,

nor the same kind of gentle gesture.

outside was dry and coated with the doubt of me.

 

the pursuit of grains were not the same

millstone on one side, rice cooker on the other

between was a me, indigenous me.

The Sudden Farmer came around.

 

I was never Indigenous Me,

until you came about.

 

I was roaming freely

but it doesn’t take long to be found

 

Mother told me to roll away,

as Father told me to begone.

they sound harsh and painful

but they were gentle and unintentional.

 

The Sudden Farmer seemed gentle

but he cuts with a sickle and leave traces of wounds,

wounds that never seem to be able to be stitched

wounds that cut through the hard uncooked grain.

 

as I roll away I saw my family,

sister brothers cousins aunts and me.

rolling towards an uncertain soil

that seems to have a certain end.

 

but to what end?

 

after all I’m just a simple grain.

but I miss the sunshine that touches my face

I miss the Mother and Father who swings by me

 

as far as I roll away I want to come back

to the place of the forgotten

to the farm of my family and I

where there were no Sudden Farmers

who cuts and steal every new grain

 

the Sudden Farmers cut and cooked my brothers and sisters

as I lay to watch in vain

unable to say a simple word that the Sudden Farmers can understand

after all I’m just a simple grain

with no words to speak

And no pain

 

but if that is so then what am I

the me that was me before I became Indigenous Me.

 

No

No

No, this is not me!

 

I am Me, the me that was never indigenous

Indigenous? what is that?

 

day one I roll with the wind

back home to the forgotten

back home to my family.

 

day two look to the familiar trees and grounds

smell the familiar air under the shades of rocks

feel the coolness of the water that flows in that direction.

 

the direction of my long forgotten land

where sacred light and warmth and treasures can be found

where I can lay in peace on the wheat field.

 

someone but no one knows that I’ve yet made my journey.

slowly but surely I am steadily coming back

seconds, minutes, hours, days, months

I am patient, but not my body

for I am a grain that dries and shrivels

facing the humongous world

 

cold hot warm cool in day or nights

desperation comes to mind with my desire inside.

some days, the wind blows hard and I roll fast to the fence of the familiar

other days the wind blows slow and I stand still as a rock

 

just want to forget that there was ever family

those who I’ve left

those who left me

those who are still waiting.

 

should I go back?

no

can I make it back?

 

for the wind will not always blow in that direction

and the river will surely reach an end,

after all I’m just a simple grain

once I’m eaten or reached the end of the river

there’s no second chance

 

yet I am a grain who will roll to the ends of the earth

to go back

to the forgotten land

and hopefully to the forgotten Us.

the Sudden Farmers once appeared again

with no warnings or sign they chase and find

the grains that rolls with the wind

wasteful they call it

but savage we did.

 

sounds of the farmer’s voice

they were nothing but mumbles

things I couldn’t understand

eyes glaring straight into the depths of harvest

 

yet grabbed me at my high end

and toss me back into the baskets

no, I couldn’t cry

after all I’m just a simple grain

 

once again back in this rice cooker

where all things seems unfamiliar,

worse is already worse

no use in fear for I’ve already decided to reach the end

 

tomorrow a new day to arrive

no matter the soil they try to grow me on

or cooking plate they prepare me for

I will always be a grain because that is me.

 

I was always me.

of all colors and never picky.

never meant to shred,

a grain was never meant to break.

 

sometimes cooked, sometimes raw, sometimes burnt, but always me.

that lives in a warm bowl protected by other grains.

the plain simple rice,

I was once me.

 

and I realized

 

I was never Indigenous Me,

until you came about.