The Last Seed

By Bhoomika S N

He planted hope in the soil each morning,

though hunger sat heavy at his table.

His fields fed strangers across the nation,

but his own child slept with an empty cradle.

The rain betrayed him, the debts grew tall,

yet still he rose before the sun.

Hands cracked, back broken, heart still stubborn,

he whispered, “Tomorrow, my crop will come.”

But the crop was sorrow, the yield was pain,

and the lenders came knocking with fire in their eyes.

That night he sowed his final seed -

a rope on the branch, beneath silent skies.

Now his son holds that same dry earth,

but not as a curse, not as defeat.

For every tear that once fell on this soil

will rise again - as bread, as wheat.

By Bhoomika S N