Poetry

The Eighth Month

The Eighth month has arrived,

A heavy sigh is derived.

To the fields farmers should walk,

Much to do less to talk.

 

Brother Sonam, family’s gold,

Go and borrow a pair of ox though old.

The land must be tilled,

With paddy or maize it must be filled.

 

Being the owner of this belly,

It must be fed, it is not silly.

How difficult it is go,

Only you and I know.

 

Waking up at 5 am is too late,

No need to mention what is the date,

At 10, night is too young, but rigid,

Alas, what pot has is only some porridge.

 

Death does make us an equal shatter,

But while living rich or poor does matter,

Happy are those who toiled and saved,

The road to wealth they have paved.

 

So not to have less yet again,

But by tilling our fields, virtues be gained,

For sure more pots laid on the table,

Some joy would be made available.

                                                                                                ~ Sonam Wangdi

                                                                                                      Trashigang, Bhutan

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