The sweetly burning sun
The smoothly flowing sweat
Blithe blisters in my hands
From untiring ferment.
The bosom of the earth
Fed with foreign seed.
My heart that awaits
A crop of bettered breed.
Seducing the land
The beat of the rain
Like a debutant father
I wait for the grain.
But the soil bears no fruit.
I have no crop to hay.
Hopes buried with the lies
And traps that they lay.
It wasn't the scented soil
And thorough was my toil
The seeds' prevarication
Mothered destitution.
My family foundered
Perishing in poverty.
Victims of seed-sellers'
Greed and Apathy.
The price of poverty too high
For honest work to suffice.
The deceit of the rich
Celebrated my demise.
- Himanshu
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment