The Sufferings Of The Dumb
With the dust whirling round the wheel,
The walls of throat seeming to seal,
In the sun bleached roads of soil-
Ran the feet of the bulls faster with toil.
Their shoulders hath blackened in time's course,
The wooden bar to them like a saw's coarse,
The ribs out of hunger come out as though-
To satisfy themselves with the rays of the yellow bow.
I know not and nor does the owner;
Since when these poor chaps has turned to labourers,
And from whence time's sharp wheel acted sharper to their neck;
Let alone to miserable dreams which it did wreck.
They look at the soil unhindered by any sound -
The sufferings of the blunt labour is the only that's
through them is found.
Were we made humans by our maker -
For this day to turn from cruel to crueler-
To treat the dumb in a way as this-
By feeling of ours which we call to be the deepest feels?
Copyright © Sonnet Mondal World Poet | Year Posted 2008
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