labor

ZEENAT'S BOWL OF IMAGINATION

LABOR

[Written in November, 1994. Published in "Poet's International": Year-1995. Republished in "Golden Thoughts" Anthology: Year-1996, Bangalore, India]

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The Sun burnt the land with his fiery eyes

And the farmer toiled in his field

Digging up the heated furnace,

Cracked by the unheeding Sun's wrath.

The sweat formed beads

Shimmering like diamonds on his forehead.

He had to toil,

Work up his way

Thro' the long heated days.

Everyday.

He looked at his blank hands

Fate had not written with lines

But the tired blood that flowed slowly in his veins

Channelized themselves on his hands

To tell him about the miseries

And sorrows of his life.

He wore but a rag

Around his skeletonic waist

That bored through his skin and flesh

As though cursing him for his poverty.

He knew not for what he toiled,

For whom he toiled

But the spade was in his hand.

So toil - toil for nothing, but labor.

The dry Earth pitied him

She broke easily under his force

For he was Her son

She knew that one day his labor would be paid

And the Sun would bend down his head in

Forgiveness...

Zeenat N

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