MY VILLAGERS

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I love you,

You are so good!

You pledge your life

For a square meal,

Day you toil and night

You sleep and populate,

Evening you smoke, play cards,

Drink tea, gossip, and pass

Hay days!

 

Then suddenly comes

Second childhood, and you

Wait for the last day,

And die.

 

Silently you come,

And silently you go,

No rupture, no ripple,

You leave.

Such a beautiful life,

Ah! Such a marvellous life,

You live!

 

I envy you, my villagers,

You are too good,

No storm, no wave, no wind,

Rages your heart,

So stagnant and sterile,

So dull and cozily cocooned

You are!

 

You are not hunters,

You are not woodmen,

Townsmen you not,

You were paddy and jute men,

Now you are landless labour!

 

And you never pine,

And pine for what?

You are fulcrums,

And with your grease

The earth eases its load.

You are not warriors,

But each day is a war day

To you!

And you war not for lands

Women or gold,

You war for the stomachs

Of your children,

And I don’t blame you,

My villagers,

You are too good!

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Abu Siddik

Abu Siddik

It's all about the unsung , nameless men and women around us. I try to portray them through my tales. I praise their undying suffering and immaculate beauty. And their resilience to life's vicissitudes, oddities, and crudities I admire. They are my soulmates who inspire me to look beyond the visible, the known, the common facade of the educated and the intellectuals.

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Subhash Chandra
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