Man Ironing Out The Wrinkles

Under the tree, a mighty man

Is he?

With his smoked coal iron

Just in the exit gate

Enough space just to stand in the exit gate

Basket full of clothes in early morning,

With large and sinewy hands

Murmuring softly lip to lip

Labour hard, toil and sweat

While others dream in the dell.

But even his brows wet

He sings a song and all is well

Clothes full of wrinkles

Make ready his iron by,

Stood at the ironing board, pressing all around and folding

By flicked drops of pearls over in morning sunshine

By hissing, puffing iron

Seems not just an expert but a hero of his everyday achievement

Up and down round and round with all the collars, cuffs, pockets and sleeves

One.

By one waiting their turn

Blouse and even wrinkled sari seems a smoothened river

Holding a giant on his hands

By just one handle, lava smoking out wires like nerve and he stood like a horse

Here Iron inviting if anyone who dared to lie on my silver

Padded board.

Over the sleeves over the chest

Buttons breathing the sweet heated smell

The hands make the world

Everyday and fire conjures

The steel

Linen, canvas, woolen, cotton arrives

All day long week in, week out

Day and night

Hearth hath his hope and eyes

Their wished sight, heap of clothes coloured And white ironed, smoky fragnances of nature

Old ones again looks newly and bright.