They’ve been struggling since the birth of the earth; But
Their earth rotates around their land
Plough becomes their axis
Each and every seed knows the smell of soil
Soil also knows the taste of seeds
Full of perspiration, dawn to dusk
They may not know the alphabet
But they know the language of feeding us.
They know the pain of empty stomach
They know the method of hanging
They know the burden of debt
But they’re always ready to serve the best.
They may not be our dearest
But what’ll happen if they take a rest!
We don’t remember them at all
Even a thank is beyond our imagination.
Every single day we get news of suicide
Don’t you kind it’s kind of murder?
But we don’t need to pay heed to this.
No movement, no candle march, no consolation
India turns it into its habit
Handful of rice…No credit, no debit.
When the back against the wall
Plough becomes nothing sort of a weapon
Not to kill but to revolt.
They have words but they can’t utter
If they break the rule
They become traitor from farmer.
An art of spreading love is farming,
Full of stomach needs no pharming.