The great wheat field,
No ‘loner wheat',
All on close to other's shoulder,
They are, together sown and reaped!
Yet a few ‘loner wheat',
Left of sickle's edge,
Left of pride and profit,
Yet reaper names it ‘charity'! !
Export and import it,
And create an economy
Of demand ridden supply! And-
Keep ploughing and plundering
Land of landless-
That the
Lads look for-
Left over ‘loner wheat'! !
Ever, in this battlefield.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem