The Plain, Grass-Filled Fields Named Caelum

The plain, grass-filled fields existed for no reason. They don’t owe the world an explanation for their existence. In the love the fields felt for the life it supported, the small beetles that nipped the hilt of the blades, the weeds that stole an insignificant degree of nutrients, and the deer that crushed its lovely grass for a place to rest, it felt that its purpose spoke for itself. It is a plain, grass-filled field. It opens its arms to all walks of life, small to big, 2 legs to 4. It knew neither of discrimination nor of the imaginary lines called borders. Even when a neighboring field of much richer, denser grass began to overtake the plain, grass-filled field, it did not scream war. It embraced the field with a warmth that made it question its intent, turning its heavy blades onto the kindness it was shown. Water dripped from cut grass. The weeds choked on indigestible food. Deer ran as they bled crimson. And it was then when the plain, grass-filled field questioned what went wrong. The field so soft the behinds of the bumblebees that frolic around it grew jealous turned to such a place that not even the ants seeked refuge. The only ones to visit the sharp, blade-filled field were the very same creatures that helped drive the plain, grass-filled field away. The mantises that fed upon the beetles, the flies that ate the carcasses of those who died, and the rats that buried holes into the plain, grass-filled field’s roots. When all who knew the plain, grass-filled fields died or ran, the creatures in the sharp, blade-filled fields turned the very weapons that connected them against each other. Only when the last drop of blood dripped onto the blades of grass did the war end. Only when man wiped their blood off their blades and sweat from their brow did the war end. Only when a wagon full of beetles, whose kin had been fed upon by mantises and held down by bed bugs, did the war end. The war for the sharp, blade-filled fields was over. The beetles looked off into the distance, from the safety of the wagon, from the safety of the blades that were crushed by the wagon’s wheels, and found themselves longing for one more day in the plain, grass-filled fields. For there, they knew not of war or death or blood. For there, they knew not of hunger or sadness or grief. For there, the beetles could nibble on the hilts of grass from sun up to sun down.

For there, in the plain, grass-filled fields, did life hold a sense of purpose. For there, did the act of existing justify the right of existing. For there, borders and discrimination did not exist. For there, the rats that ruled upon the newly named Corrumpo cry glory did not exist. For there, the beetle named Pingue laughed at the weed for hiding its suckling of the field's nutrients. He had told it that it needed not to ask nor feel shame. For there, in those fields, the hungry were forced to eat. For there, in those fields, the weed was thanked for telling its story. For there, in those fields, Pingue was able to smile. For there, in those fields, did the weeds keep their heads.

For no place on the countryside could any field, no matter the size or height, match the pleasure of that forgotten, plain, grass-filled field named Caelum.