A Peasant’s Last Note

 

 

In the month of May at mid night
lying on the charpoy I wait for the moon light
through the barred window it enters to my poverty
jostling through the vapoury sweat in the air
spreading its charity

My dark enclave now half lit
only if it had come earlier a bit
my flesh-less back inured by the jute-rope-engravement
left the charpoy to make use of the arrangement

Replenishing my pen with dark blue ink
lungs with air and stale sweaty stink
and the poor little brain with thoughts to bethink
rubbing the leftover sleep off my eyes
filling some courage one at each blink

The sun-tanned wrinkles of my moisture-gone palm
that earns the toughest bread by day
by night pens down life’s melancholy psalm

Tonight my inkpot is almost empty
but abundance of words in my heart
I see my naive optimistic youth
thining into a jaded old spurt
as I scribbled my remission on the last page
and sighed the last supplication to the lord
before doing this horrible act

I claim no authority over my own life
but obliged to atone for my failure
with stories of success and paragons of virtue
this world will do good with one less pauper

In the month of May at midnight
standing on the edge of a well
I wait for the time to come
and escort me to another hell

 

 

(P.S.-source of the featured image- https://www.artzyme.com/mid-range-paintings/abstract-paintings/life-death-path/ )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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