Barefoot child in flax field holds bee. A field split by nature and smoke. Non-food crops smile beside warning and wonder.
A barefoot child between wildflowers and burned land, holding a bee—where future, memory, and choice begin to whisper.-HealthGodzilla

Although non-food crops smile, their smiles aren’t always gentle.
Indeed, they carry history in their seeds—hope, harm, healing.
As a result, begins the journey of a farmer, a poet, and the child between them,
across fields where policy and photosynthesis entwine.

🌾 Opening Poem

For example, if a farmer marries a poet,
their child might be a policymaker who listens to worms.

Likewise, if a minister sits under a neem tree
and learns to wait for a squirrel’s blessing before signing a bill—
that, in essence, is legislation.

In the same way, if non-food crops smile in the breeze like answers to forgotten prayers,
if GDP could measure the joy of bees returning to the hive,
or the way flax bends in a monsoon—
that, ultimately, is economy.

Moreover, if Kimiya, alchemist of the air, walks through Brussels,
leaving behind only compost and clarity—
that is your parliament of the future.

Non-food crops smile—yet not always with innocence.
Sometimes, they smile like saviors; other times, like smoke behind a burning grove.
Originally, what began as alternatives to fossil fuels and synthetic chemicals
now walks a tightrope: between healing and harm, policy and poetry.
In the end, this is their story—and the whisper of a second harvest.

The Child Has Cried (Prologue)

She smiled—not because it was time to speak,
but rather because it was time to listen.

Meanwhile, somewhere between the lowlands of Yorkshire and the corridors of Brussels, a child has cried.

However, not a human child—
but instead, a whisper from willow, from hemp, from nettle.
More specifically, a call from the flax stalks sleeping beneath subsidies.
From a miscanthus root that dreamed of lighting a village.

And Kimiya, the Whispering Alchemist, heard it.
As a result, she stepped into the policy pages, barefoot.
The pages browned at the edges—
not from age, but from soil.

Act I – Before Oil, There Was Flax

Long before oil wore the crown,
the fields whispered a different kind of wealth.

They say the industrial age began with steam.
However, before steam, there was rope.
Likewise, before electricity, there was lamp oil pressed from seeds.
Before synthetic dyes, there was madder root.
And before latex gloves, there were linens spun from flax.
The farmer was not a food vendor alone.
She was a chemist. A healer. A builder.

In those days, non-food crops smiled not for profit, but rather for purpose.

The hemp plant braided itself into ship sails and revolution scrolls.
Flax wrapped bodies in both ritual and recovery.
Willow stood as both fence and pharmacy.
Furthermore, in the pockets of foragers, seeds of poppy, evening primrose, and chamomile were carried not as crops—but instead as companions.

But then, something shifted.

The twentieth century arrived with drums of crude oil and promises of more-for-less.
As a result, plants were forgotten unless they fed.
Crops not meant for eating were pushed to the margins—or else into the hands of cosmetics companies in tight glass towers.
Consequently, subsidies silenced variety.
Markets narrowed vision.
The rope became plastic.
The balm became petroleum jelly.
The fiber became factory-smoke.

And yet—

The memory didn’t die.

Even now, in the folds of old farmer notebooks and in the soil beneath set-aside lands, the seeds remained. Waiting.
Flax still grows. Hemp still reaches.
Miscanthus still bends in the wind, whispering, “Remember me?”

It is here Kimiya steps again—bending over an old British plot where linseed once grew under the EU’s flax scheme.
She runs her fingers through the dusty subsidy records and smiles.
Not with triumph.
Instead, with tenderness.

“Before profit, there was partnership,” she murmurs to a sleeping sprout.

🌾 Transition: From Memory to Machinery

The soil remembers the soft footsteps of flax pickers.
However, it also remembers the heavy boots of machines.
And the fields—
increasingly, they no longer grow only what we eat.
They grow what we burn.

The world did not forget non-food crops.
Rather, it industrialized them.

Miscanthus, elephant grass, willow coppice—new champions of renewable dreams.
Their promise? Clean energy. Carbon capture. Local economies.
Smiling crops, planted not to feed mouths but to feed the grid.

Still, as Kimiya walks deeper, the wind shifts.
She smells fire. Palm oil. Peat smoke.
She steps over the remains of forests that once sang with birds.

Behind every policy paper is a field.
Behind every biofuel tank, a choice:
Namely, was this field meant for food, or for flame?

She sees the paradox.
And she walks through it.

🌍 Act II – Not All Smiles Are Kind

Some crops smile like healers.
Others smile like salesmen.
Some—like ghosts.

Kimiya moves gently now, through research plots and satellite fields, her fingers trailing across leaves that hum with engineered silence.
Eventually, she steps into a miscanthus field—its long grass swaying not with freedom, but with obedience.
This was not planted to heal the soil or welcome bees.
Instead, this was planted to feed the fire.

The science reads well.
After all, miscanthus grows fast, high-yield, low maintenance.
Willow coppice regrows itself, sequesters carbon, offers biomass to power stations with fewer emissions.
The documents—UK’s POSTnote, the EU’s harmonization plan—meanwhile, all whisper optimism.

“Sustainable,” they say.
“Biofriendly,” they claim.

But then Kimiya kneels and presses her ear to the ground.

There is silence.

No beetle rustle. No pollinator hum.
Only a dry kind of efficiency.

She remembers the WHO–CBD’s warning—how fields once alive with crop diversity now hold industrial plantations of palm, sugarcane, corn.
Notably, she sees what they wrote: how biofuels now take up 9% of global crops by mass, and how their thirst has burned forests in Indonesia, dried rivers in Brazil, and cleared ancient lands for “green diesel.”

“The smiles of some non-food crops,” she whispers,
“come with smoke in their teeth.”

In contrast, in South-East Asia, she walks through the haze of a palm oil plantation—once a rainforest, now a monoculture.
The WHO report echoes: Respiratory illness. Biodiversity collapse. The price of cheap vegetable oil.

She steps over charred roots.

A bee lands on her sleeve—
then flies away again, finding nothing to love.

And yet, not all is lost.

In Yorkshire, near Selby, a willow field stands by the memory of Project Arbre—Britain’s first biofuel plant.
Farmers there once dreamed of heating homes with crops that gave back more than they took.
Kimiya smiles.
Thankfully, not every smile must be a trick.

“Discernment,” she says to no one.
“That’s the crop we’ve yet to plant.”

🏛️ Act III – The Parliament of Compost and Clarity

Not all parliaments have chairs.
Some have roots. Others, claws.
And some, remarkably, listen better when no one speaks.

Kimiya enters Brussels. Not the city, but the idea.
She steps into a library of directives—binders that stretch like corn rows across dusty shelves.
One shelf reads EU Parliament Report, 2005. Another, UK POSTnote, 1999. A folder lies open: WHO–CBD, 2015.

Carefully, she pulls the pages as if they were leaves not yet fallen.
They speak. And she listens.

The EU Report: bold and visionary.
It sketches, for instance, a Europe where non-food crops replace fossil hunger, where bio-based economies bloom, and where farmers become climate stewards.
It dreams of hemp car panels, miscanthus heat, and linseed insulation—offering a second harvest from the same field.

Yet Kimiya frowns, not in disagreement, but in grief.

“You dreamed well,” she says. “But whom did you ask?”

The UK POSTnote: sober.
Moreover, it outlines economic barriers, regulatory knots, and cautious support for biomass stations like Project Arbre.
In addition, it praises miscanthus but admits its silence.
It nods toward flax and hemp—but warns how non-food crops smile only while the subsidies last, and how swiftly they wither when incentives vanish.

“Wisdom wrapped in worry,” Kimiya murmurs. “Understandable, but is it just?”

The WHO–CBD Report: the guardian.
Its tone is not policy—it is eulogy.
Specifically, it describes how non-food crops can become monsters—palm oil devouring rainforests, biofuel demand stealing calories from the hungry, monocultures replacing wild symphonies with sterile silence.

“Not all green is kind,” she says. “Some leaves cast no shade.”

She looks up.

No one speaks in this parliament, yet it holds more voices than any chamber:
For example, the cough of a child in Jakarta’s haze.
The hum of a bee denied its meadow.
The silence of soil tilled for fuel.

And so, Kimiya—alchemist of air—does not pass a motion.
Instead, she plants one.

“Discernment,” she says to no one.
“That’s the crop we’ve yet to plant.”

🌱 Act IV – A Future Not Yet Marketed

The market speaks in prices.
The soil speaks in silence.
Kimiya listens to both—yet trusts neither completely.

She no longer walks—she kneels.
Not in surrender, but in practice.
Kimiya is now planting—not a crop, but a question.

The future is not yet here.
However, parts of it are already sprouting in corners—unfunded, unmarketed, and unmeasured.
The yield of the Farmer-Poet is not in calories or kilowatts—rather, it is in possibilities.

✽ The Miscanthus That Stays Wild

Not all miscanthus must feed turbines.
Instead, some might grow alongside wildflowers, co-designed for bees, not just biomass.
Kimiya imagines “pollinator corridors” braided into every energy field—a place where fire and nectar can coexist.

“Why must productivity mean emptiness?” she wonders.
“Moreover, can we measure success in hums per hectare?”

✽ Hemp Without Chains

She imagines a new circular economy where local weavers and builders use hemp not just for panels and rope—but for identity, for texture, for reclaiming place.

Additionally, she sees urban community cooperatives growing flax on rooftops—not for margin, but for memory.

“Not all value is in export,” she writes in the margins of an EU paper.
“Sometimes, value stays in the hand that harvests it.”

✽ A Parliament of Soil Scientists and Midwives

What if future agricultural policies were shaped not only by economists and agronomists—
but also, by midwives, ecologists, and poets?

Imagine if, instead of asking only how much you grew, subsidy forms asked:
“What did your field teach you this year?”

What if, at the Ministry of Agriculture, there was a department called The Listening Unit—
where farmers submitted not just yields, but also questions the earth asked them?

“The future does not need a revolution,” Kimiya says quietly.
Rather, “It needs a remembering. And the courage to choose slowness in a fast world.”

She does not give us a blueprint.
Instead, she offers a seed.

After all, not all futures must be scaled.
Some, quite simply, must begin.

🎭 Hello, Artista

Artista and Organum talk beneath a tree. Non-food crops smile quietly in the distance. A bee passes. No one hurries.
Artista and Organum under a fig tree, with the warmth of soil and silence between them. Kimiya fades into light beyond the field.-HealthGodzilla

Artista
Kimiya’s hand is warm.
It smells like compost… and burnt pages.
You’ve been walking through something, haven’t you?

Kimiya
Through policies and plantations.
Through dreams dressed as data.
Through crops that smile—with kindness… or with teeth.

Organum (lifting his gaze)
Did you find what you were looking for?

Kimiya
No.
However, I found what we forgot.

Artista
Which is?

Kimiya
That the soil is a parliament.
That a bee returning to a hive is a kind of GDP.
Indeed, that flax doesn’t need a lobbyist—it needs someone who listens.

Organum (smiling)
You’re not angry.
Not even disappointed.

Kimiya
I’m planting.

Artista
You don’t mean crops.

Kimiya
No.
I mean… discernment. Reciprocity.
In essence, questions that germinate.

Organum
And what if they never grow?

Kimiya
Then I will have listened.
And that, sometimes, is enough.

(Silence falls, soft and wide. A bee passes. A squirrel blinks near the neem tree. The wind carries the scent of something… remembered.)

Artista
You know… I think the earth is not asking for change.
Rather, it’s asking for companionship.
Even non-food crops smile when someone stays long enough to listen.

Kimiya (nodding)
Exactly.

Organum (quietly, as he watches the two women walk away)
Let the factories count units.
We…
we will count petals.

✍️ Author’s Reflection

I was not alone when I wrote this.
Others spoke, and I listened.

The fields spoke—of histories unharvested.
The bees spoke—by leaving.
The policy papers whispered—hope, confusion, contradiction.
Meanwhile, somewhere between a flame tree and a factory gate,
Kimiya walked barefoot, and I followed.

This piece was not written to convince.
Rather, it was written to remember.
To ask:
Ultimately, what does it mean to grow something that feeds the future—not just in calories, but in conscience?

Non-food crops smile.
But not all smiles are kind.
Some heal, some hide, and some—if we listen closely—ask us to become gentler stewards of the land we claim to love.

If, even one reader pauses and thinks,
“What am I planting, truly?”
then this article has not ended.
Instead, it has sprouted.

To the children who will walk these fields long after us—
we are trying.

And yes, we are listening.

— Jamee

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