O Dada!
How are you? I asked the man, whom
I had never met before
The man stared at me
Stopping his sowing the saplings a while
Evidently, he couldn't recognise me
And gaped at
Slightly bent his neck
And eyes replied,
so so
I stopped
and noticed his sowing
I know they spend life in fighting
Earn a little
Hardly maintain their life
We have been taught
They, the best friend of us
We know we've no time
For their welfare to blink an eye
It's my country
Sixty percent of land they nurture
More than half are called our friends
Our friends!
How far is it true?
Whenever the little children are taught
A pseudo friendship is brought.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Farmers are called our friends but truly we never regard them as this and remain indifferent of their welfare.