By Adrian David
A disastrous drought dried up the lands,
but not the impoverished peasant’s tear glands.
The field was barren, hardly a sapling in sight.
None lent a helping hand, adding to the plight.
Every day, he looked up at the cloudless sky,
hoping the rain gods will hearken to his feeble cry.
Alas, not even a droplet reached the root.
Decades of heavy toil yielded bitter fruit.
Almost all the green acres he possessed were sold,
for hunger and thirst plagued his agrarian household.
Debt upon debt piled up to a gargantuan sum.
Inflicted by life’s many blows, he grew numb.
Despite hopefully voting in every election without fail,
there was no answer to many an anguished wail.
“Agriculture is the economy’s backbone,” they said.
Ironically, it bent, making the farmer bow his head.
The hands which had brought food to your plate
had no other go than succumbing to fate.
Deep inside the empty well, a frail body lay dead.
‘Yet another farmer suicide’ the daily report read.
(In the drought-stricken parts of Asia and Africa, debt-ridden farmers commit suicide owing to abject poverty)
Adrian David writes ads by day, and poetry and short fiction by night. His poems explore themes of society, war, conflict, gender, human emotions, and everything else in between, from the mundane to the sublime. He resolutely believes that art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.
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