Peasant's lament

Moirangthem Minakshi Devi *

Where are the lands, where are they?
Lands the peasants once nurtured and sowed
With spine and bone that arched,
Where their footsteps lightly spun o'er the ground.
There isn't any wheat nor any rice wild,
No corn fiddler nor reapers to toss the harvested grains.
No fresh green horizon line and fragrant soil anymore,

The barren lands our farmers once owned,
Where foods and fodder stalks glazed intricate
Like the burnished spear of a field of gold,
Where field mormon locust cherish on the rurbine's dine.
It's now plummeting, alarming quite.
Sounds echoed loud, screeching and scraping my ear,
Of the guiltless victim's agonies.

Bleeding sap off the trees and their broods when chopped.
I feel the throe of their final woe,
Letting go the brawny hold of roots neath the soil.
In the land they took pride in,
Where they once stood robust.
But that as it may,we live without an outcry.
Domiciling life beside narrow or wide streets.

Seemingly pleased with cities mushrooming
At the cost of farm lands and trees,
Unbothered loud common laugh of men above it all,
Catering whole of wishpering loveliness away.
Half the Summer,half the Spring
Of the tedious peasants have gone with them.