In the mountains, we learned about longing

We were taught the rice
terraces, laid end to end, 
could circle the earth 
several times— 
                  a belt 
of brown and green, a girdle 
festooned with grain— each 
seed  
     the shape of a tear or a drop 
of milk that flowed from the breasts
of a goddess who took pity on our 
hunger.   
        For we are always hungry,
rooting in the dark even in sleep;
and our thirst, long like a river
that snakes 
             through the years
without seeming to find its way
to the source.