Poetry

Misery

The old peasant will sleep hungry today,

his crops didn’t procure enough.

He remembered the tall promises made – that day

Those that awaited to be later bluffed.

He sold his land to get the seeds

and grow them into grains.

Now the crops are equivalent to weeds

compelling his group to go underneath the trains.

He was born in debt and raised therein

Now he knows for sure – Debt is Death!

                                                                              ~ Bhavya Roy 

                                                                              Bagalpur, India

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