At Their Tasks
Everyone's seen the morning sun
the light slants and the blood-splattered sky
the full moon's sliced off to night's dark face
on to the TV screen, Facebook or Whatsup
seasons arrive and go, to return once more
the summer heat takes off your shirt
the hat tilts to shade
in the rainy months, the umbrella's out
to serve as a walking stick as well
nothing new about it, to write about
the mannequins at the shop window
the phenomenon not in it's field of vision
intricately woven with our lives
and yet we don't give a damn about it
at our work, play, courtship or party-hop
working against it, at every step
the paper to read and write on
the houses we live in; and roads
by undermining mountains for rocks
ballast for the railway tracks
automobiles burn the air
shortage of oxygen to breathe
impure air impair lives...
Yes, I have seen them live
in Sevagram a village in India
followers of Mahatma Gandhi
survive in an ashram
in houses made of mud and wood
just can hold a bed, table and chair
no electricity but lanterns
no tap water but from underground
to live in sync with nature
that's their motto and life's purpose
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