When I was a cheerful crop in the field,
the farmer was very happy to see me.
As he glimpsed me green and healthy,
his heart swelled to have pompous feel.
He watered, fertilised and caressed me;
and very earnestly removed the weeds.
As healthy and burly I was growing,
he shared my joy and befell relished.
Once the storm came and laid me down,
the farmer went sad watching my pain.
But soon after he filled with the joy
when with grace of god I stood up again.
One day he came with sickle in his hand
and severed me from the field, away.
He crushed out my grains from the husk,
Had the expression of smug on his face.
The farmer took me to the grinding mill,
I knew the fate but didn’t feel the grief.
He got happy, hoping to have the recipes
I was happy having served purpose of life.
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