Staring at his once green patch he stands,
abundantly verdant, made his heart dance
where he should have tilled happily, as he wished
and raised his crops, isn't the life he dreamed?

An abandoned page now, it could have filled
with poetic oozing from the inner spring
when caught between the cross fire unawares
one has to go down and hide under the thickets

His facund red earth  now has hardened like a rock
the rains have abandoned this land for long
still not down,he is  gathering what is left,
wish to infuse his passion in the beauty of words.

Deep down in his psyche a stirr, still he could feel
while waiting for the return of the muse who went
to fetch water to fill her magic pitcher to sustain his crops,
he waits for her to trek back before the winter sun slants