Poor Farmer Poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma

He tills his dry but dear fields,
To earn his bread, butter and corn,
In a mystic love with his precious yields,
Always happy, never worn and torn.

Here a mango tree; like a rich face;
Beautifying and enriching big bower;
There, a monkey filling his hungry space -
Gardens and fields are decked with love-flower.

The robust Papal dancing below,
Pouring love and joy like a flood,
As met its lost brother long ago,
Rocking with him in the wood.

Talking to his wheat warbler,
Singing and dancing alone and no plea;
Listen you, O tired traveler!
What he is singing to you and to me?

But now all joys gone, — left with the sad ones,
No body is there to trod with him in this lonely vale,
The loving and caring companions;
Are now silent, sad and pale.

Go, lonely listener, he says,
He loves his land from his birth,
His hands were pure, and pure he prays,
There is no such heart and hands on earth.

He milks his mother's milk,
But one dropp not for his empty bowl;
A very tender story for his ilk,
And never in his life, in his love fall.

You cannot unlock his heart,
The key is kept with Him;
The silent creation’s loudest chants,
His master's love and requiem.

But perhaps God wrote his noon,
With full of sorrow such as mine,
Out in this noisy world lays he down,
The heavy dirge divine.