Plough

You may be a mere piece of wood
You are the one symbol of our labour
That raised its head
in the ancient years of the earth
plough maybe your name
but you are that burning letter
which fell on the earth from the sky
abandoning the language of the stars
your touched roused
the perfumes of dreams
sleeping in the earth
and dispersed them all over in the empty space –
Before you might
Knelt the woods, the hills, the rivers and the savannahs –
Drinking your sperm
Earth yielded in ecstatic joy
Large gifts of fruits hearths homes and poems –
Today in the final page of history
You have drawn the burning line across the mankind
Defining workers and idlers
Held out the promise of a new sun
To the working classes of the world –
Seshendra Sharma
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com