Our True Roots... Poem by Varsha M

The man out in the field,
Might not seem you to yield;

But believe me still,
It's time for him to till.

The farmer of the hour,
Warm us up with the pour;

With the meals, he serve,
Is above all that I deserve.

Day and night of his perseverance,
Finally crowns with eminence;

Often seems to me lika a till and toil of soil
But for him it's the joy of reverence that uncoil.

Donned in dirty wrap, rough hand, and creased face,
Feed the whole mankind as their toil ripe with grace.

You might reach, to the last planet, in the universe,
Still you'll need a farmer to feed you with ease.

If discoveries modernize you;
Farmers energize you.


AD 290121.