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(I am deeply saddened by those here on DU who have bragged of their refusing to vote for the Democratic nominee if certain candidates are not chosen. Perhaps this will help in making them see the danger of such action).
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The fields of America lie fallow, as those who wish to plant await the time. They hold the seeds to her new harvest in their fists, each person clutching one small part of the bountiful crop to come. The seeds are held in burly calloused fists, and in fists of alabaster, on the idyllic coasts of Florida and across the wide expanses of Texas. These seeds, if planted correctly and nurtured well, will stem the hunger that haunts us now. They will not fill us full, for that takes many seasons, but they will stop the aching in our bellies and the shaking of our limbs. We long for the first bite, and we ask nothing more than for us to take stewardship of the seeds, and to wish the growing season well.
For some though, the seeds fly far from their hands, lost in the winds of anger and petulance. The people must be given a full meal, they say, we will stand for nothing less. Damn to those who feel otherwise, and damn to those who find hope in the piece of bread. For far too long we have starved at the trough, and we will now eat our fill. The wait to eat shall not be our rallying cry, no, far from that. We either gorge ourselves at the table, or we stay hungry. Those who pretend to be farmers do not fool us. We see the true picture, and we want our plates packed. As the harvest calls, they do not hear.
The crops are growing still, yet the harvest will be weak, for many seeds have gone unplanted, and there are many asking for bread. Far in the distance, in the dimly lit back alleys of the wrong side of town, women who have lost control of their own bodies scream at coat hangers and ask for bread. Before a mound of earth that once held life, a mother lifts a veil, grasps a small triangle of red, white and blue cloth, and asks for bread. Throughout this land, those of us who dug the furrows and nursed the plants to life ask for help. The hunger is killing, we say, and the bread will give us strength to plant again, with more seeds, and more food, until we can finally push back from the table of true democracy and say we are no longer hungry.
Yet your refuse, and throw the seeds away. You stand as Cerebrus, guarding the gates to your own personal Hades, as the bellies of America begin to bloat. Your own hunger knaws at you as well, but you steadfastly wait for the waiter to deliver not only the appetizer, but the main course and dessert as well. Those who crave bread stay far from view, for they are those misguided souls who never picked up the guns and screamed for revolution. Sadly, they are too weak to do so now, for they have not eaten in a very long time.
The harvest does not look well now, for the crop will be small, if it comes in at all. The team that at one time promised to help has fractured, many gone to ground in places unknown to preach against the non-believers and to gather the weapons for the fight. But the cavalry is not coming any time soon, and the rank and file grows weak from malnutrition and wants nothing more than bread.
As they grow weak, so too do you, but you do not know why. Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, has failed us now, but she was left an impossible task. To feed the millions she would have needed the help of millions, and you were not up to the task. As your skin hangs from your bones you look for comfort, and as your eyes weaken, you look for help. You come to me asking where is the food, and I open your hand. As I place the seeds inside, I begin to cry. Not for my hunger, but for yours.
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