Black Earth (chernozem)

B
Too black, too much indulged, living in clover,
all little withers, all air, all charity,
all crumbling, all massing in a choir—
damp clods of soil, my land and liberty...

With early plowing it is black to blueness,
and unarmed labor here is glorified—
a thousand hills plowed open wide to say it—
circumference is not all circumscribed.

And yet the earth is blunder and obtuseness—
no swaying it, even on bended knee:
its rotting flute gives sharpness to the hearing,
its morning clarinet harrows the ear.

How sweet the fat earth's pressure on the plow,
how the spring turns the steppe to its advantage...
my greetings then, black earth: be strong, look out—
black eloquence of wordlessness in labor.
437
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29-04-2025 19:16:33
This poem is a powerful ode to the earth, rich with contrasts—fertility and decay, labor and liberty, sound and silence. The imagery is visceral: "damp clods of soil," "rotting flute," "black eloquence of wordlessness" evoke both beauty and toil. The land is revered yet unyielding, a paradox of nourishment and hardship. The rhythm mirrors the plow's motion, relentless yet reverent. A striking meditation on nature’s duality and the unspoken dignity of labor.

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