The smell of the soil makes you
Swell with lively zeal;
The first showers of the season
Make your heart dance like a pea-cock
With feathers full unfurled;
Whenever I touch my first morsel
I cannot but think of you;
Not a strip of cloth on your body
Not a handful of food to fill your stomach;
The crop you reap with hard toil
Will not reach your mouth;
Not a pair of shoes to protect your feet;
Not a blanket to guard you
From the bite of wild winter’s fangs;
This raw soil under your feet
Became your shoes and this sky
Became a blanket to cover your limbs;
You seem like a lone camel in the desert
Bearing a heavy burden;
Though you lack food
You gave manure to tend your crops;
You crushed your bones and shed your sweat
And made yourself a manure
To nourish this soil;
The seeds you planted grew into green life;
Famine falls to your lot
Due to drought or floods;
We claim the fruits
That should be yours;
To work quietly is your part
To strike, to protest, we claim as our right;
If you do the same, we suffer and can’t
survive;
If you ask me downright
“What is your share?”
What can white-collared workers
Like me, answer
Except hang our heads down with shame?
You are the man who ploughs the soil
We claim the fruits of your hard toil;
You are the man who reaps the crop
We claim the crop as ours;
You sweat under the horrid heat
We rest beneath the cool shade
You burn with hunger
From overeating we suffer;
Name is
yours;
Result is
ours;
Work is
yours
Words are
ours;
Practice is
yours
Precept is
ours;
If you open
your third flaming eye
If you rear
your furrowing plough;
Our sins
will burst
Our plunder
will be out
And turn to
dust.
*************************
In Telugu: A.Surya Prakash
Translated
by: G.Somaseshu 1st December 2024
