The Land Of Rural Paradise Poem by Orin MSH

"Where are you going, Bedah, dear old crone -
With your rattan basket, scattered with rice?
Harvest clouds are thinning out the monsoon,
No stars glint in your rural paradise
Why must you shout at dust-paved sun, the loon?
The unwaged labor takes away delight?
Nowhere will you go when there still is light?
Where will you be, Bedah, O! dear old crone? "

"Across the Tea Tree Forest, she will see,
The dark brown man of her dark history
The village men and women are calling, -
The spirit of the Land to come and sing.
An endless bounty for all, that shall be
And when they praise the flowers, the paddy
Though dead old men will walk, without a bone,
That's where she'll be, most dear old crone? "

"The roots of wind and pitch seed of melons, -
Are strewn across the sand of this barren
Without a path straight and the lantern, Moon
There is so much cunning a man can do.
Until the nightingale bids all adieu
Why is the blue fire burning now so late?
You are knocking down bridges, tempting fate, -
Why are you gone so far away, old crone? "

"She followed his husky voice through the fall, -
Of shining faith waving the pagan ways.
God breathes his own when the wind stalls
That clouds may drift and rain down on us all
Grieved shadows come and blackens the Beris Land
With whispers false and reprimanding sand
No witness for the trespass that was found,
And she will go there, where it is safe, sound."


Orin MSH (22 July 2022)