The Price of Rice

“Hunger is older than law.”

The forest knew him
before the world called him a thief.

He walked its narrow paths
with hunger folded inside his ribs,
quiet as evening mist.
Trees did not question him.
Wind did not accuse him.
Only men did.

A handful of rice,
white, ordinary, merciful,
became heavier than law.

They saw not a man
but a crime waiting for punishment.
Voices gathered.
Hands multiplied.
And the crowd discovered
How easy cruelty becomes
when shared.

Hunger has no caste,
Yet it is always judged.

They tied his wrists
as if hunger could escape through fingers.
Dust rose.
Phones glowed.
Someone smiled for a photograph
While pain learned a new language.

The sky watched without interruption.

Rice fell to the earth,
small moons scattered in mud,
each grain asking silently
Who among them was truly hungry?

Later, reports were written.
Words stood in neat lines:
incident, accused, deceased.

But language failed.

A society does not collapse in violence.
It collapses in indifference.

Somewhere in the hills,
a mother waited beside an empty hearth.
Night arrived gently,
carrying news, no wind wished to speak.

Today, plates still overflow.
Cities still praise their progress.
Yet hunger walks among us, unnamed,
searching for kindness
before it searches for food.

And the forest remembers,
because forests do not forget
those who came to them
with nothing
except the wish
to live one more day.