TOWARDS A GLOWING HOPE

The ploughman, so poignantly,

Ploy and plough, deep in the field,

Sweat sharply,

In the hot, and howling sun, above head;

Sowing the seeds,

Pathetically, so powerfully, and pleasantly,

Of life and livelihood;

Own and others,

Burning, in the bowl, and morosely melting,

For self, and several others;

The fisherman, so patiently,

At bank, amid shadows and the shrubs,

With his angles, in the water,

Poised in cross legged,

Laid and lied,

In the vast visible, weakling wait;

Peeps through, caves and cavern,

Of his hunt,

Into non- commotional, deep and dangerous water;

The labourer,

To such a lethargic long day,

Bowed down, weighted, under the burden,

By the baby, tied so, on the back,

Heavily over laden, on the head,

With shoveled soils, to shift,

Through steep stairs,

Right to the roof;

Bent and broken, from within,

So hard and hoarsely,

The gardener,

Planting for foliages and flowers,

So intently, and emotionally,

Nurturing, such a little and lovely plant,

With all love and caressing,

Like his own sweet son,

Fondling foolishly and pampering prophetically,

So sentimentally, scaling a second’s growth,

So elegantly and pleasantly;

The ploughman, fisherman and the gardener,

Exhibit and expose,

A uniform trait, and triggering talent,

Of survival,

Into the sad, sardonic and sorrowful world;

How hopefulness,

Helps to live life,

Amid all hazardous and hellish,

Vitiated ways, and virtuous villains;

Where deceitful doctors, and poignant proctors,

Inject and instruct,

Venoms into veins, bogus into the brains;

Through all such perils,

They make, majestic and magnificent move,

Towards a glowing hope.