Farm Poem 2 --- (this one for farmers)
The farmer
Whisper not to me, “You are poor,”
Nor shout it loud with charity’s guise.
I’m no tool for your fame to soar—
My toil will dim your fleeting shine.
Tempt me not with trinkets I spurn,
Skeptical of gifts that bear a cost.
You take more than my hands return,
With shadowed hearts, men share their gloss.
As a common soul, I walk the street,
Yet genius feeds on my furrow’s yield.
The rich rise high on my sweat’s defeat,
Nations hum to the tune I wield.
Survival stirs the strength I bear,
Lives depend on my ceaseless stride.
A simple life, yet vast its care—
Loyalty, truth, and love abide
In love I rest, in peace I wake,
Each moment blooms where love has grown.
Author : Johnson. V. Dev.
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