As a ghost, he would wait everyday
for skies heavy and clouds grey,
Hoping that rain would end the drought.
But it didn’t arrive, to his dismay.
So when he grew tired of playing the game,
And his crops had grown old the same,
He retired to his shed and stared
at the fields, seeking what never came.
And then they asked why he lived alone,
Why he struggled to feed even his own
stomach. While their own lives grew,
There were others waiting to be grown.
And there was fear. But he tried to mask it.
The produce will never see a basket;
The future that lay ahead of it was
to be packed and sent in a casket.
Because in no time, they would be dead,
And so would he while not being fed.
Out in the heat, there were no signs
of life, but corpses of crops instead.
Days grew warmer
for the farmer.
With pain,
In vain,
He pleaded, in sorrow,
For a better tomorrow.
People didn’t seem to care
until the news came to their
Mansions.
And when they realised there was no scope,
When they understood why he couldn’t cope,
They were a little too late to find
his body hanging from a rope.