And Toil

This is an account on the Indian farmer who has a thankless,unenviable job of tilling crops in the field, round the year,for the masses.

The Sun spraying its powdered light,

On a lush, verdant carpet of glossy grass,

A bent, hunched man, swarthy,his dire plight,

Toiling in the fields, sinking in life's morass.

Glistening sweat, emaciated,

A turban sits heavily on his head,

The hunger of the multitudes,he satiates,

Although he is alive, his spirit's limp and dead.

His mind veers to the debts unpaid;

To his home, a thatched hut,

He thinks about his friend who goodbye to this world,bade,

His life too had been stuck in the rut.

For a moment, he contemplates doing the same,

The burden of supporting his family's too heavy,

But then,looking at his son,he is filled with shame,

How can he leave him and return to the Almighty?

His family is his only tether,

They wreath him to the Earth,

Despite gnawing,nagging hunger,

He keeps toiling, his face grim, his son's face full of mirth.

A few years later...

"This is the sickle,this the blade,

They must become an extension of your arms,

'Tis your life now, your fate."

And thus, the 'boy' was condemned to a life on the farm.

"We are but cattle,

Pulling a cart carrying the whole population,

'Gainst our piteous condition, we are waging a lost battle..."

Not only the sickle and blade were bequeathed,

He inherited the debts his father had incurred,

Till when to the Earth will he be wreathed?

For him, the line between Earth and hell has blurred.