A Crop’s Yield Poem by shrey tripathi

The farmer after bathing,
unfurled his vest.
Vest: spotless, dry and white
And put it on his chest.

And there he went out
to toil in the farm,
With plough, hoe and rag
held in his arm.

The penurious farmer,
worked hard-hitting his field.
Drowned in sweat, he worked till noon,
not thinking about his yield

Soon he went abode to drink some tea
but, fell all on his vest.
He swabbed it,
he hung it and went to sleep.

The vest drank sweat,
The vest smelt the rag.
The tea soaked by the vest.
His heart near the vest.

The vest had dried
Among the wind over the night
The winds had presented a new vest
I wonder what more had dried.

A new sun rose,
the farmer came out
to adore his cotton field
but, forgot about his crops yield.