Golden Potato Poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay

The golden potato beamed at him in the sun
When he had almost stopped his quest for this one
The others in the pile smeared his hand with red earth
But it as if for his eyes lay hidden apart.

Make me your choice do pick me
Lift me from this dump set me free
I deserve no mash no steaming boil
No cut into pieces to be fried in oil.

Get me quick for I come from a land
Where soil grows rich in golden sand
They have a song for each seed sown
That when they sing all grief is outgrown.

And the harvest when they’re spread in the sun
All hands embrace all hearts welcome
In each sapling that sprouts from the soil
Is seen the miracle of god’s earthly toil.

He picked the precious up from the red dirt
Needing it dearly for his backyard desert
Where he would have it on this summer sown
Till the rain shoots it up all grief is outgrown.