The Fields are black and ploughed.

The cattle flushed and fed.

With beads of perspiration on the brow

And a turban on his head,

He left.

Why he left, and where he went,

Is a secret until now;

His tractor was never seen, nor his paraphernalia traceable

No one knew what the fuss was

Why life for him had become so unbearable.

He left in the broad daylight

Into the numbing darkness.

What the hell was going on in his mind?

Was it monsoon or indebtedness?

But mind you the land was tilled and the crops sown,

Reeking of his hard work;

Hard work that went unseen, unheard lost and gone.

 Farmers farm for the love of farming;

Our ignorance is not bliss;

It’s harming.

Campaigns are set up for brightening houses,

No one ever campaigns to light up the inner houses.

We don’t flinch

From calling ourselves great cooks;

The Farmers wheedle the best from the earth  

And the brooks.

Let us not forget who brings to our tables – wheat, honey and salt;

Let us cease dear lives from coming to a halt.