They said they would come again
the promises still remained,
the wait was long and a pain.
Nothing took away the pain
of seeing him hanging
from the mango bough
he had marked out for his final rites.
Rightly done, the same bough
that sheltered him after he had spent
time in the fiery sun sweating
out with the spade and the seeds,
now wept barren,unable to fulfil the last
obligation it had made with its master
the seed sower,grower ,the farmer
now dangling, his open eyes seeing
the emptiness where the greens
should have been ?
His wife dry eyed,asking that the bough
be cut down,that the last rites
be performed by the three year old son
who played outside,
posing like a child artiste
for the avalanche of photographers,
that he may find rest from his labours
while they began theirs.
Since no one came any more,
in spite of the wait,
all promises in vain,
she bore the spade,
dug the earth, started to sow
not as a desperate widow,
but as the farmer
who begins with ambition and hope.