Asks Good Earth In Mirth Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

A farm hand fed on phoney legends—
Ye-desh-ki-dharati1—my golden lands,
Fancy getting carried
Which, such songs help to breed,
In fuzzy minds things go out of hand.

God has this good old land made fertile,
Need there's none on a farm soil to toil.
A plod here, a plough there,
Need to nurture, nor care,
And abundant crop grows there to smile.

A man tickles the earth in some haste
To see if she laughs with rich harvest;
But when tickled, not pleased
And from shock nigh relieved,
She gestures: ye think farming is jest?
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1. Second line, it is Hindi 'my native land a golden land'.
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Tongue-in-cheek | 06.01.14 |