Wheatfield with Crows

Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows renders a vista brooding under skies of rampant desolation. A place of growth rudely shorn seethes with unseen tumult, hinted in hues flinty and grim. Furrows lap a bruised horizon, mute aftermath of wandering storms now crouching to spring once more.
Against heavens lowering, black wings gather and roil, a murder of crows ascending as flames sputter and fail. Their raucous cries alone disturb a slumber patrolled by phantoms, memories stalking the wastes of a harvest time undone. The sun withdraws behind clouds rank, abandoning all to shadow and panic bereft of light’s warm reassurance.
Van Gogh’s brush rakes color savage across the canvas, shards of beauty jagged, torn, and hurled at random from brooding skies. Disorder reigns where once was patterned toil and reaping’s reward. Chaos ascendant takes wing on pinions dark, mocking rhythms quasar torn that govern stars dimmed and soil left fallow and wanting.
Here mortal industry stands rebuked, paean fierce to entropy’s rule and life’s quixotic course. A struggle is vainly etched on the land now glutted, bereft of hands to tend its teeming increase—a kingdom mentorless where he who sowed shall reap but ashes and lament.
Wheatfield with Crows tolls a warning unheeded— nature’s patient round foredoomed as feeble legions flee its scene distraught. Nor sun nor harvest’s gold shall bless these confines cursed where none may dwell but phantom hosts and wanderer’s hearts waylaid on bleak roads without egress, condemned to beak and claw.
In colors corvid’s wings be mocked, Van Gogh’s blade severs the cord ‘twixt yesterday imploring and tomorrow sealed in loss. His darkling vision tolls a dirge for labors who lived and ended without recompense, leaving but faded furrows and forebodings grim to pace the fields of sleep and stir its tenuous reprieves with rumors of wrath abiding yet unwreaked.