Banquet Of Burden

By Pratyusha Deshmukh

In the golden field where grain once grew,

the harvest whispers the morning dew.

Feasts decay on the silver plates,

while hunger lingers at the gate.

A crust discarded, fruit half-spoiled,

By our careless hands our Earth is soiled.

We toast to wealth yet spill the wine,

as empty stomachs ache and pine.

The trees weep and the rivers sigh,

where surplus rots and souls go dry.

This banquet build on our nature's grace,

now drowns in waste,

a grave disgrace.

Each grain is a tale of the sun and soil,

of a farmer's hardwork and honest toil.

To toss and waste it is a crime profane,

a sign of mockery of the drought and the rain.

Let conscience stir our clinking glass,

recall the struggle, the roots and mass.

Consume with care and waste no more,

so our tomorrow will blossom like never before.

By Pratyusha Deshmukh