his bunch of crops

Have you seen a farmer,
With a rope in hand?
With all the dreams shattered
Walking along the river
Not trying to sail across
On the carcass of his son,
Rather, crawling ahead
Resting his defile head
On the severed trunk Of his own.

He has taken in his filthy towel
His childhood days,
The taste of bettle nut,
his wife had offered
on that auspicious night
the titter of his daughter,
staring at
this bone fitted doll namely father.
The smell of the soil under
His rotten straw pelted roof.

How do you recognize?
He must be looking at the star
At the river,
at the jet- playing aNaughty turn
in the blue sky
He must be looking at your pen
Your warm coat,
your luckAnd comfort
Oh No, not at his weatherworn farm land
Not at his wretched roof
Not at the flooded river bed
Not at his destiny,
that he had once chased.

Just go to him and say
Before he tighten his oxen
On the fragile branch of time
Say say say, I have found,
His bunch of Crops,
That had been stolen.