An Old Shovel
Memories go back to my vanished youth,
And I reminisce clearly my master’s beautiful farmhouse.
With its granaries full of corn and wheat.
He was once a zealous farmer working day and night,
With me- as his inseparable companion.
We worked together in the corn fields till the fall of dusk.
With cock crow, my master would wake up,
Do his morning ablutions, get ready and proceed
To his field in springing steps,
With me clinging heavily onto his shoulders.
The land was ploughed, the seeds were sown.
My sharp blade made furrows in the soil.
Though my master’s hands with toil were torn
And my blade got blunt many a time,
Never were we inclined to take rest,
But kept working on end till the harvest was done.
Even when the summer sun was blazing above us,
With the air pulsing with waves of heat,
We worked hard, both of us finding joy in relentless toil.
Those were days of sweet contentment.
It was long ago, those days have quickly gone.
Now I have grown old and with me my master too.
Rusted and abandoned, I am tucked away,
In the old farmhouse, the sad reminder of a glorious past.
There, on a cracked wall, I am hung limp in dreamless sleep!
Now the old farm door on its rusted hinges creaks
The wicker gate around the farm is falling to decay.
The gravel path, with brambles and weeds overgrown.
Rodents and snakes roam freely among the thickets.
My master is now like his abandoned farmhouse.
A rotting engine not overhauled and can’t be put to use.
He has withdrawn to a life of lethargy,
With trains of memories haunting his days!
Copyright ©
Valsa George
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