Hands that feed a million stomachs,

Who sow crops and reap golden corn for all

Mixing the sweat of earnest labour to irrigate

The bosom of the fertile soil

Tilling the soil in the bazing heat of the glaring

Golden traversing orb of fire

Toiling without leisure from dawn to dusk

Nurturing the crops as children with tender care

Peering at the sky for rain clouds to shower

Elixir of life on the barren thirsty land

Labouring with sincerity and promptitude

Till the hands are rubbed to be wipped off

The intricate lines of fate

And at the whim of the oxymoron weather

They live and toil to earn harvest of crops

If cursed with a famine of barren, thirsty, arid lands

If engulfed in the clutches of a raging flood

All toilis ruined, all effost aborted

And hands wiped of lines remain empty

Mouth of the feeder remain hungry for lusted morsels

And the feeding hands and toiling brow

Sucked into the morass of dejection

Burdened with multiplying loans

With never ending installments

The fire of hunger ablaze in the stomach

Hunger seen on wilted facesof starved emaciated children

Hunting for food grains in cow dung

All dignity lost burnt alive on hunger’s pyre

At last hope of life an impossible dream

They die on hanging ropes on silent trees

Or with poison meant for pest flowing in hopeless veins

The sarcastic joke of fate hands that feed dying of starvation

A shame to us dining on choicest morsels

In the candle light , in darkness of oblivion…