They love slumber
They love not to work
They toil only to gain
Some to pull on a week
To dine and lie dead
On the cot they love!
The morning sun or birds
Never awake them to life.
They rise late at mid-moon
They cook quickly
To embrace the cot again.
They eatt little, do little
But they retire early to bed.
They live only to sleep
Not to live or to engage.
The village looked lethargic
The cattles, the cat
And the dogs too are lazy
As their sleeping masters!
They nurture no ambitions
They came out to work
Only to reserve for few days.
The reserve they use to sleep
They will sleep till exhaution
Of the bin in their hutment.
A village sleeps always
When the earth awake at East
And retire at the West
And urge worm to humans
To work, to toil, to plough.
But they with bated breath
Lost to the surging waves
Hid from heat-breeding sights
They never see the crimson
They remained a riddle
Wrapped in a mystery
That make them the grotesque
And invoke wrath of the earth!
Yet they alive to sleep as dead!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem