Oh palm ! without resting your eyes, protecting me from being gazed,
nourishing me as your child, no one can be betterly raised.
They say I grew taking up fertilizers,humus and self – dare,
but they lack the secret of your recipe, which is bleeding sweat and parental care.
I remember the way you placed me in womb of soil,
so that I can grow and serve the human race finishes their daily toil.
Your son left you, your wife swept you, and your daughter questioned your role,
the society escalated in your home, letting you away from your goal.
But I see you, I feel you more than the spring breeze and shinning lure,
as starred hotels have registered, “Wonderful décor, branded dinning sets but alas !
The food was poor” .
They become judgmental, when they sight grubber as your choice,
and boils on your tough skin, abstains them from
listening your original voice.
They say their work requires a lot of logic,
while you wipe off
, they weigh you with compensation for tragic.
Second god is not the one, who saves your life from death, as they are the
ultimate guess ,
It is the one who feeds you while your life’s progress.
Lord Balabhadra with any of his embellishments is incomplete,
without the plough, seems destiny forbidden fleet.
I know their professions can never reach the level of your barns,
as you carry the potency similar to prabhu’s palms.
The imbalance can come to a final slaughter,
when a teacher teaches the
student how to become a farmer.
Note: Here prabhu’s palms is titled to a farmer, “I” is the crop who narrates the feelings for the farmer and “They” being the society.
Poem By : Rahul Kumar Das