I kneaded the earth..
My damp feet, frozen blue,
I submerged till waist in the mixen and mud.
While I planted saps of paddy
In those weary moments of life, I immersed in my reverie.
The reverie of utopia,
Myriad imaginary ideas….
And often voiced my inabilities to my aged father,
“Oh father! I can do this no more.”
That hunchback aged man resting his back said’ “look son, the field is only half done.”
The sun had set and the dusk had fallen.
“Plant a couple of hours more, till the night soars.”
And Amma ( Mother) warmly spoke,
“let go my child, you are now awfully tired,”
“The night is on a roll,”
” Go, kindle the earthen lamp at home, I will plant your quayside whole.”
My fingers smudged with lamp’s sticky soot,
Her magical words somehow set alight my output.
Having rode that tiring life,
I pondered…the field of this life is still half done and I am already tired!
Somehow I pull a few strings
And schelp the field…
But whom do I pour my lament to
That, I can do this no more….
And even if I do,
who would say ?
“let go my child, you’re awfully tired….the night is on a roll, go kindle the earthen lamp at home, I will plant your quayside whole.”