Velvet field

On a wheat field I have a simple life.
I eat dirt and run through the crowd,
looking down.
Days are long and full of snorting laugh.
With each season passing by,
I grow swellier, flubbier
But there is not filling for my maw.

Once in a while, a half-drowned,
fat, angry Ma'am
with a wooden stick—beats me down,
directing the course of my path.

But not this time,
now she wields a flaming rod,
swinging left and right.
When it touches my thigh
I have no other choice,
but to run and hide.

She can barely see
what she's aiming at,
yet in a relentless pursuit
tracks me down.

I try to blend amongst my swine,
but she just marks us—one by one
"A great Mother"—we used to call her that.
Having exhausted branches of narrow path,
I squeak—"Fine! Burn me. Damn!"

And the time slowed down
as I was falling on my snout.
I was lying there on the ground
with squealing, filling eyes.

Once there were enough of scars,
and I was left alone to die,
emerged the bluest of sights,
shining gently on my wicked crust.
I felt full—at last!