The parched earth with wrinkles; its visage in a lorn
A few blades of grass scattered alongwith the thorn

The tiller ploughs you gently with coulter parting your soil
He sows his hopes with the grain and a melancholic toil

You now look at the sky and longingly wish for drops of rain
Expecting them to shower their feelings to assuage your pain

But alas, the clouds take no notice and with dispassion dismiss your plea
Refuse you even the scanty drops that you long for before elsewhere they flee

And as bolt from the blue, it pours when it rains; as they say
The torrents of fury washing all that was in its way

Battling the vagaries, one fine morning a sprout peeked into the world
Bravely raising its delicate stalk and then its green leaf unfurled

Inspired by your valour, did a horde of them grow in the fields
With resolute firmness showing to all the power that unity wields

The farmer was blissful and heartily commended you on your feat
As again since ages, you’ll feed mankind with your rice and your wheat

After the harvest you lay barren, yearning for the apt season
You may now be devoid of crops but surely not of reason

Even when the weather is gloomy and there is no sun to shine
Tread along the untrodden and the victory shall be thine

Toil begets success like sloth begets failure; slowly this truth does seep
It is the same with our actions because as you sow so shall you reap