The Hands That Fed the Sky

By Bhoomika S N

She woke before the sun had thought of light,

her palms already carrying tomorrow.

The soil knew her name - it clung to her skin,

like a prayer that never reached the gods.

The fields were her mirror - cracked and waiting,

each furrow a question she couldn’t answer.

She fed the land with sweat and songs,

yet her own plate whispered only echoes.

Promises came dressed in papers and seals,

but the wells stayed dry, the markets cruel.

Her husband’s voice became the evening wind,

soft, but always leaving.

Tonight she plants again - not grain,

but courage, deep in the waiting earth.

For every hand that broke beneath this sky

still teaches hers how to rise.

By Bhoomika S N