A young dashing earthworm, his skin never cut, was digging a passageway through a deep rut. He ate down the one side, and on up the next, much soil he processed, much muscle he flexed. Then lo to his wonder, against judgment sound, he found Krukuv's root-cellar, under his mound. Fair welcome, fine fellow, old Krukuv did say, Come munch on these wood chips, and eat of this hay. The earthworm ate gladly, until he was full, he summoned his kinfolk, so great was his pull. Now listen, my earthworms, the dashing one said, we make this our home base, from here out we spread. If times should turn sour, if grass should grow sparse, man Krukuv will save us, he'll cover our arse. For our part we'll digest, all dead things we can, and transform these mountains into fertile land. The earthworms they allied, with Krukuv that day, as payment took wood-chip and compost and hay. They fanned it out in numbers, they transformed and roamed, they turned the clay soils right back into loam. The banks of the Yalung, with dark soils abound, so rich and so fertile, they reach meters down. They work well with tubers and legumes and rice, they're sacred and precious, their worth has no price. Grigovians their blessed homelands do cherish and for it they spill blood and will gladly perish. It all started long ago, one fateful day, when wise old man Krukuv let an earthworm stay. By one simple gesture he helped bless this land, with deep loamy soils, with crops tall and grand. So be kind to all things small big young and old, and you will get loyalty that can't be sold. This is Krukuv's lesson, and it is well known, by wise men and women – now make it your own.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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