Strike- Arathy Asok

The farmers held
Dead rats in their mouths,
Wearing green loin clothes
Hiding what is left of their pride.
They sit in the capital city
Waiting for some eyes to open,
They sit for days
Unblinking at the cold.
Far away in distant lands
Their crops have withered in the heat.
Their children look at open skies with empty stomachs.
Cattle stray among stubs of what was once green.
The women with water at their hips look into a far horizon for a dusty bus
That will return the men,
Who left heir ...


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