Hapless Death

He starts his day,

Swaggering on his way,

One hand on the heavy plough,

Other on tummy, for his dough,

Lands in his farm,

Brings it into the form,

Talks to his cattle,

Makes them ready for his life’s battle,

Gets into the field,

Praying for better yield,

Bulls are tied to harrow,

And called out to furrow,

Looks above his head,

Questioning the great Head,

When the drops of boon come down,

But waits till the land turns to fried brown,

And he reaches sky,

To show his fellow mates awaiting supply,

Sky puts her sprinklers,

To wet the land with sympathetic tears,

Gets the seeds on a loan,

Never known that it makes him groan,

Sows them in the ridges,

Believing seedlings come out of their cages,

Finally some can’t, some can,

Those minimum were planted again,

This time clouds again rain,

But it is in great feign,

Water floods the crop,

Making the farmhand listen that plop,

Government grabs it for its field day,

Giving the feeders a bad day,

They never resolve this,

Thus farmers won’t have the bliss,

So, he reaches the sky again,

And asks his mates to bargain,

Hoping his death gives them breath.