The Last Harvest - “Let them eat equity”
The old farmer walked his land one final time, boots sinking into the soil that had fed his family for generations. The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the empty fields.
The new decree had come down—his land was no longer his. No compensation. No appeal. They called it equity. He called it theft.
His neighbors had already gone. Some to America, some to nowhere at all. The ones who stayed learned to lower their eyes, to work for those who took what was once theirs.
A convoy of government officials arrived in polished black SUVs. They carried clipboards, not plows. The farmer watched them from the porch, a shotgun across his lap, though he knew it meant nothing.
By winter, the shelves would be empty. The city men, the ones who had cheered for fairness, would wonder why there was no bread, why their children went hungry.
He spat into the dust.
“Let them eat equity,” he muttered, and left without a backward glance.
