Monday, January 21, 2013

The Maiden of the Farm

I have seen you many times in the fields, cutting grass and grain,
the sun bore down hard on you, and you showing no restraint.

The wind makes your hair flow and the scent too,
the long, golden hair flowing down those weary shoulders,
which are tired too.

Beads of perspiration grow on you, you wiping it from your brow,
who has seen you working in the fields with such glow?

Armed with a sickle, you cut the crop clean,
the tired hand of yours harvesting the grass green.

The raven finds you working every day,
among dusty soil and burning rays,
planting crops, and making hay.

Sitting there by the fireside under a starlit night,
your skin cooling under the moon's rays,
you walk in sweet dreams of another day,
another day of toil, another day of rest.

© 2013 Abhijit Pandit