Apache rotors, envying windmills no more,
Thresh the air wheat-gold. On lonely state routes
We can witness them whisper the harvest.
They idle gently, no intention to ascend.
A fine, dry chaff gilds the passing windshield.
Where are the wars that whet these blades? Far off,
Far off and not involving us, at last
Happily powerless and eating well,
The machines that enslaved clouds and tides
Stripped down to serve our long abandoned land
And the boys who left these bright, genuine fields
For fool’s gold deserts home now, wizened men,
Poor as the wise are poor, flush with enough.

Articles by Amit Majmudar

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