Beneath The Taarka Mandal Poem by Sumita Jetley

Beneath the vast and endless sky,
Where stars like pearls are strung on high,
A farmer sits, his toil now done,
Underneath the setting sun.

The neem tree hums a whispered tune,
Bathed in the glow of a tender moon.
The fields he plowed, his humble ground,
Now rest in peace, no other sound.

"Taarka Mandal, " he softly speaks,
As wonder fills his weathered cheeks.
Each shining orb, each glowing sphere,
Feels vast, yet close—so crystal clear.

His hands, though rough, have held the earth,
His heart, though poor, feels endless worth.
For in this sacred, starlit dome,
He finds his wealth, his heart, his home.

No gold, no riches, no lavish fare,
Just faith that lives in the cool night air.
The breeze, the stars, the moon's embrace,
Are treasures spun by the hand of grace.

O humble soul, who stands so small,
Yet feels so grand, so part of all.
For in your heart the cosmos sings,
And crowns you king of simple things.

So pause, and see, and softly say:
"Beneath these stars, I'm rich today."
The fields, the stars, the moonlit dome—
All whisper: 'You are never alone.'