An Indian Farmer

I see every day of that burning heat,

aching legs of those bony feet.

I tire into many-a-filthy fields,

a pond of mud which never yields.

I am a soul known with a sickle,

quarreling wife and kids to un-mingle.

I am a sin that is discarded,

a troubled societal being retarded.

I am the man with no mates any bold,

pinching curses when I am slightly old.

I am the bye to adieu no more,

It was me but just a farmer off-that shore.

(C) Raj Jaipal

* Picture: Courtesy www.youthkiawaaz.com