Corn fields and thoughts

Under the twilight below the lumps of sadly colored clouds, I sit in my balcony watching the world that is slowly loosing its view from my sight. The leaves of maize that had blushed green upon the touch of spring and ha bore the corn after a consummate love making have withered. So little they live yet with such a pious cause to feed the earth. They rattle against the window. Their corns have been plucked. Their leaves yellow bleached in heat as the last rains of the seasons pour upon the earth. They have no name still they live for cause. They feed when they are young and they burn when they die and dry.
Just few days have slipped into history with nothing much remarkable. Just few days back the children played hide and seek in these corn fields, just few days back the broke corns off its plant and roasted them, celebrated corn-picnic in the mud house at a distance. Just few days back they had the skins of children burn in rashes. They have lost it. Just few days back the owner of the field came to see them, looked at their large corn with pride, and held its leaves in hand with smile. The owners were filled with zeal when their saplings had come out piercing the earth, green and small. They worried when it didn’t rain for mere two days, they became desperate when the heat was little too much. They came to the fields with their children; they showed their children the reward emerging from the earth for their hard work. Just few months have passed and there they lie unattended, they are gasping and very soon they will dry in the sun will reach the kitchens to cook food. This is life, life swinging inside the frame of time loosing care with each move. Hair turns grey and the bones bend, beloved life looses itself. It leaves behind the earth, the sky, the water, the air that was never its possession. A story of an individual comes to an end but the saga of life lives on. Seed grow into saplings, saplings into plants, flowers into fruits but to wither is an undeniable destiny. The plant will die but its seed will be buried in earth again, it will raise its head from hide and it will continue. Suffering is a part of life, moving is its destiny but end is the ultimate truth.
A whiff of air breaks my series of thoughts. It also flatter the worn out leaves again, there are roots trying to ungrip the earth. Their desire to rise does not die yet I see the field owners already uprooting the plants and raising a heap, they will boil the rice, warm the water and the wind ill blow away the ashes.