Tarred Soul

           

Scorching heat of the midnoon sun,

Pinching reflections of the fiery rays,

Gushing loo of the roasty month of May,

Didn't deter those weary hands-feeble and wrinkled,

To dig the undulated burning land and make it even,

To layer it with the slug of coal and tar,

By bearing the heat of the metal - the tin and plough,

With a thirsty throat and burning eyes,

A hungry stomach and tired limbs, 

Unceasingly she toiled till the last bird went back to its abode,

With blistered hands and unhealed scars, she retired for the day,

Washed her blackened body and lit the fire for the evening meal,

Where she lonely sat under her humble shelter and prayed to the almighty,

To thank him for the morsel of grain she fed on everyday,

And the tiny abode which she resided in.