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Those sackfuls I carried everyday, miles away off Alwar

Tyres crushed apart sometimes, at the hard earth lower

Scrubs and scant trees on both sides, winds rushed me through

“Rashid, going to the market”? that old man asked me to know

Never I knew what I carry, my father wrapped it up before I start

Glimpses all through the way, dry lands and the green in dearth

When the market neared, before the shop I delivered them

Money I was handed over, time it was to turn back the way same

A day’s work done, my abba and ammi with my sister would be waiting

I’ve to run at high, with a telepathic soul of home-catching

Some miles off I knew, those sacks were already unfolded and emptied

But a small crowd suddenly like a ghost, before me appeared

“Where are those sacks? You carry our Goddess- our cow”

Befuddled was I at the mercy of inflamed eyes, I couldn’t plough

Then rained down before I spoke one after another, blows, fists, kicks

Terribly and mercilessly beaten, my little heart was almost at my lips

All of a sudden a sharp brutal metal, went inside me and sever

Bathed in blood, torn apart in flesh, I couldn’t make to my home ever………

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