The Culture of Strawberries Before 1865
Raised from the sun
That gleamed down
Upon my fertile land,
Sprung from the rich soil
Of our flourishing world,
I was just the same.
I was just the same
As all the others that the sun
Had given a place in the world.
The rain had come down
And grown me in my soil
So I could blossom on land.
We were blessed to be on this land,
But some did not see all of us the same.
The farmers threw the oblates to the soil
While us long wedges were held up to the sun
In rejoice. They took us down
To the market to be shared with the world.
My kind was praised by the world,
But I always wished I could return to the land
I came from, go down
To my old friends, and say, “We are the same.
We flourished at the hands of the same sun,
And we grew from the same vibrant soil.”
I would lay down in that soil
With my brothers and sisters and curse the word.
My brothers and sisters never deserved to fry in the sun.
They never deserved to be put out on the farmer’s land
To rot when any long wedge could have done the same.
If they don’t take us all out of the sun, we will all burn down.
If we all burn down,
There will be no more nurturing soil.
The farmers might see then we really are the same.
When would this be a different world?
Must we have plucked our families from their land?
Must we have watched them burn under the merciless sun?
A long wedge tastes the same as an oblate down
In the burning sun. We were grown by the same soil.
Half of us were hated by the world. It only took half to kill the land.
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In the cruelty and beauty of diversity, we are all truly the same.