MR PASIPANODYA

THE NAZARENE

[INTRO]

Pasi panodya.

The earth eats.

Ask the kings.

Ask the bones.

Ask the oil.

[VERSE]

Pasi panodya, the earth eats slow, not with teeth you can see but with rain, root, worm, weight, heat, pressure, and time below, it eats the king in the coffin, the child in the field, the soldier with medals, the banker with yield, the prophet they mocked, the tyrant they feared, the influencer filtered and perfectly cleared, it eats the selfie, the empire, the crown, the last little breath when the body goes down,

the earth eats names till the vowels turn faint, eats marble saints and counterfeit saints, eats letters on stones, eats flags in the rain, eats every proud mouth that rehearsed its own name, and every year the surface gets dressed with more green, more rot, more seed, more things unseen, biomass falling like unpaid rent, leaves, beasts, bones, blood, breath all spent,

you scroll on the skin of a swallowing world, Netflix glow while the grave gets curled, laughing in bed with the blue light sweet, waiting for your square of the latest street, waiting for your layer in the archive of clay, waiting for the dust to file you away, and that is why the old ones said “late,” because the person was called and the earth ate,

Mr Pasipanodya with the cane in the school, six cuts for the boys who broke the rule, name sounded ordinary till time got wise, then Shona opened like a grave in my eyes: the earth eats, the ground consumes, swallows the proud and rents out their rooms, turns yesterday’s breath into underfoot load, while the living walk over the buried road,

oil was not always black liquid power, it was leaf and beast and ancient hour, bodies that breathed, forests that climbed, creatures compressed in the cellar of time, pressure and heat in the dark like a sermon, gravity pressing the old world vermin, now you burn dead breath to light up screens, fossil ghosts feeding digital dreams,

copper from veins, lithium from brine, silicon from sand in a glittering shrine, rare earth pulled from the wounded ground, circuits singing where the dead sleep sound, your phone is a chapel of mined-up dust, a little bright idol with a charging lust, and still you ask it to tell you your worth while it glows from the bones of the eaten earth,

deeper you dig, the older they get, Assyria buried under centuries wet, Babylon resting in broken brick sleep, Greece in a shard where the archaeologists sweep, Rome in the road, Egypt in sand, empires stacked like the lines in a hand, and each age said final, each age said first, then the earth ate its architecture of thirst,

Nebuchadnezzar saw metals in layers, gold head, silver chest, bronze prayers, iron legs, clay toes, kingdoms in a statue too proud to kneel, then the stone cut without hands made empire feel what dust already knew in its chemical gut: every kingdom built by man gets shut,

tree rings preach what the calendar hides, thin years, fat years, fires, floods, tribes, every circle a memory of weather and wound, every layer a psalm in a wooden tomb, and the earth has rings too, strata and stain, pressure marks, ash lines, fossil remains, whole worlds compressed into geological speech, saying, “Man is grass, and the grave can reach,”

gravity, grave, grief, groan, listen how the words fall down in the bone, everything heavy wants centre and depth, dust wants dust when it runs out of breath, scientists study the pull and confess they can measure its dance but not crown its address, it bends the light, it curves the way, but still cannot tell you how to escape decay,

you dream of Mars like altitude saves, red dust garden with brand-new graves, cryosleep coffin with a prettier name, hundred-year nap in a metal frame, wake up cold where no Eden grows, no mother tongue, no neighbour knows, no local mercy when supplies run thin, no blood on Mars that can pardon sin,

Korah heard Moses and still chose pride, after the Red Sea opened wide, after Pharaoh’s gods got publicly shamed, after Nile and sun and firstborn named the Lord as King over Egypt’s throne, still rebellion got brave in the camp alone, then the ground opened mouth under holy sky, and the earth ate men who refused to die to self,

so do not mock judgement with a clever grin, the earth has swallowed rebellion before and will swallow again, not because soil is god, not because death is king, but because creation itself groans under sin, waiting for liberty, waiting for fire, waiting for Christ to redeem desire, waiting for the sons of God revealed, waiting for wounds in creation healed,

the caustic truth is clean: you are not above the layer, not above the worm, not above the prayer, not above the miner, the beggar, the slave, not above the billionaire buying a cave, not above the Pharaoh embalmed in gold, not above the Caesar carved in cold, not above the skeletons museum-lit, not above the grave that knows your fit,

but the earth met One it could not digest, One laid down in its stone-cold chest, One wrapped in linen, sealed in night, guarded by empire, hidden from sight, and on the third day the stomach of dust convulsed with glory and lost its trust, stone rolled back like a mouth forced wide, and Jesus Christ walked out alive,

the earth eats kings, the earth eats clay, the earth eats names carved yesterday, the earth eats forests, beasts and bone, the earth eats towers and screens and thrones, but the grave could not eat the Son of God, could not hold His blood, could not keep His body, could not silence the Word that made the sod,

so repent while breath still warms your chest, repent before dust writes over the rest, repent before your works go under the loam, before your device survives you alone, come to the Christ who entered the ground, broke the grave from the inside out, rose with scars, holds death’s key, and calls dead men, “Come out, be free.”

Pasi panodya, yes, the earth eats all, but not the risen Lord when the Father called, and if you are hidden in Christ when the last trumpet cries, the earth must give back what it swallowed alive.