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Ploughed Fields

Ploughed Fields.

My neighbour has started his tractor diesel fume wafts through the open kitchen window.
On his way to plough the field across the road, dark furrows in damp soil, birds sit in trees
read the upturned soil for tidbits. My neighbour doesn’t read has no computer, and give
damn about wikileaks; evenings he and his wife sit in their kitchen and watch soaps, news
is too boring. Me, I’m amazed the stupidity of the unscripted soap news is, this struggle for
dominance, making friends with vile dictators in the hope of landing a fat military contract
selling hardware and to have a base so they can keep an eye on the opposition. Winner and
losers in a mortal dance embraced by phony friendship. And when a tyrant goes against our
interest we kill him off and look for one who can do our bidding. What the people want is
banalities such as peace and democracy, but that’s too bothersome. My neighbour knows
this and let birds fight amongst themselves over title tattles and succulent worms.

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