Saksharism

The paddy fields, green and yellow, Welcomed the farmer- bright and mellow. The sound of the hammer echoing through soil, The laborer rejoices, despite the toil. The machines buzzing, clear and free Entrust the workers with a new sense of glee.  The sellers and vendors shouting loudly, For their items to be sold proudly. For labour is unique and universal, No force can stop it from being vocal. Not in riches, but in honor they stand, As its worth is woven by hand. --by Sakshar Das 30th March, 2025

 Deep in the kiln, dark and dry, Echoed the sound of a faint, silent cry. The gasp to breathe, a desolate try In the blistering heat, making him fry. The laborer's eyes - wide and dilated, The particles within it tightly trapped. His bodily grit disintegrated, The muscles totally cramped. The sound of erupting cough- sick and deep, Reflects hopelessness and fatigue, so steep. His lungs betrayed, forcing him to weep, Yet bound to work, albeit gravely sick. He works for his children, innocent and cute- With visions of a future bright and astute, But little do they know how crude Their dad must toil to earn their food. Serving his family is his sole key, A mission to brighten what they see. Yet, it's a long way to glee Like leaves swaying on a storm-struck tree. He must work, fine and hard - Keeping his health and agony in disregard, To ensure his successor's trump card, Allowing them to fly like a bird. --- by Sakshar Das 30th March, 2025