The Meadow Was Green

Imagine this.

You are at the world’s end. All the tall buildings we built were demolished to crumbs. The animals are fleeing from civilization. Humans are being terrorized by some ugly, slimy, bluish living creatures from outer space.

You were captured as a hostage. They demanded humanity to hand them over the secrets of nuclear weapon, or they will kill you and wreak some havoc upon the land, the sea, and everything beneath the veins of the sky.

You knew the secrets of nuclear weapon far outweighs your own life. Still, somewhere deep within, you yearn for a salvation. You hope for a savior. For the leaders of the world to devise a grand scheme to save you and throttle the invader’s attempt of total domination.

It turns out your prediction was spot on. Humanity does not heed the invader’s command. They deserted you. Perhaps they thought saving one life wasn’t worth the trouble of devising this ‘grand scheme’ you were hoping for.

What happens afterwards is ultimately predictable: the earth has several guests, and they point their laser beam-producing gun to your head at point blank range.

‘Any last words?’ they’d ask you.

This public execution is supposed to be broadcasted worldwide, so you know you ought to make it worthwhile.

You could read a touching poem to soothe everyone’s soul, or you could sing one song about chivalry to encourage young men to take up arms and actually fight back instead of hiding in their houses. Certainly, you could also scream your lungs out and call the president of your country a stupid baboon for deserting you that easily.

But you don’t remember any poem to speak of. Nor do you have enough strength in you to sing a song. Mocking the president, the very one who warranted your death penalty might seem nice, but you know that would not change anything. The world would still be in shambles. Everyone is still dying. The earth would still be weeping.

You only have one chance.

And judging from your own exhausted physique, you can only say one sentence to change the world, or to cease the last torch of valor left in humanity.

Your breaths turn wild. Inhaling and exhaling exasperatedly, you then noticed something.

A very simple thing that you’ve known ever since you were a toddler.

You glanced over the invader’s shoulder, to the panorama displayed on the monitor.

You see a field; a meadow.

It is dreadfully black.

Deep black.

.

.

.

You made up your mind.

You leaned forward to the microphone, let out one full sentence, and was shot to death.

But that one sentence gave strength to humanity.

To fight back.

To reclaim what was taken away.

To replant what was uprooted.

To heal what was hurt.

To stand up once again and weather the storm.

 

That one, petty sentence; it changed the whole world for good.

 

This is what you said that time:

‘The meadow was green.’

 

This is what you actually conveyed:

‘So let’s keep it that way.’