The Village

A tiny stroll on unpaved roads,

with feet sinking beneath the mud,

And broken scraps and chimney pots,

Of barns and huts of jolly hills.

Here lies that broken shovel,

In the middle of the crops,

Used, eleven years old

The tool that puts a coin in his pocket,

A tool that feeds him, and his family.

The Circumstances tell the village,

"You shall face a drought,"

The Circumstances tell the village,

"You shall face a thunderstorm,"

But these, these are courageous people,

Who do not crib, but cooperate

And bravely face this fury of Nature.

And so, my visit here found me my biggest treasure,

The treasure of peace and hardwork,

I dug it till the very end,

Until I found the core.