The Poor Man's Pride Poem by ashok jadhav

At dawn I saw the farmer rise
Before the village stirred awake;
His roof was straw, his walls were bare,
Yet hope was bread he did not break.
The field lay thin with borrowed rain,
The plough was old, the oxen slow;
Still steady ran his patient hand
Across the earth he yearned to know.
His children played with dust and light,
Their laughter rang with honest cheer;
They owned no toys of painted gold,
Yet joy was something always near.
The sun burned hard upon his back,
The sky gave little in return;
But in his eyes lived quiet fire—
A strength the wealthy rarely learn.
At dusk he shared his meagre meal,
No grain was wasted, none despised;
He bowed his head, not out of fear,
But grateful for the day survived.
The town passed by with careless glance,
Counting him poor in cloth and coin;
They never saw the wealth he kept—
A heart that fate could not disjoin.
So stands he still on stubborn soil,
In hunger's grip, yet standing tall;
For dignity, though thinly clothed,
Is richer than the wealth of all.