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rucha-patil
Indian
Poems1
Followers1
Words48
The wall departed and I saw fog, A pale touch and it turned into smoke; The fairy tales wither away, Found the lost fantasy world at bay; The nomadic world will never flock, This land is for the farmers of smoke; Cultivation of tripy fields, We wait for the harvest, Every seed of our fate, Deep down stored in the locked closet; The field’s on fire every day, every night, The inner self at its peak, With the gods of water we fight; The fields turn into ashes, And we rise for a new yield, Like a phoenix, from the ashes of ****
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Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:53 AM UTC
rucha-patil
Farmers of smoke
The wall departed and I saw fog, A pale touch and it turned into smoke; The fairy tales wither away, Found the lost fantasy world at bay; The nomadic world will never flock, This land is for the farmers of smoke; Cultivation of tripy fields, We wait for the harvest, Every seed of our fate, Deep down stored in the locked closet; The field’s on fire every day, every night, The inner self at its peak, With the gods of water we fight; The fields turn into ashes, And we rise for a new yield, Like a phoenix, from the ashes of ****
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