Friday, May 15, 2009

Soiled


He wakes up the sun,
Looks at the kin asleep,
Remembers Him,
Ablutions by sweat will follow.

He gauges his tools,
And counts his seeds,
To impregnate her womb,
His children they will swallow.

He steps inside,
Watches the sky,
With the air negotiates,
Ones with his masters will follow.

His soil not his
Family mortgaged,
Indebted to his bullock,
He finds His plough shallow.

The sun tires down,
He steps out,
His kin at their chores,
Of hope his mind fallow

He serves Him,
In the truest sense,
Unintelligent to complaint,His Gods never have a halo.
(Title, courtesy Salil Mirashi.)

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