Sunday High Five By Akash Karmakar

Farmer

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 They assemble, 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.

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