Farmer (Thank him once)

With axe and sickle in his hand
He serves the best way he can
Heavily burdened with debts
Hardly anything to look forward
Out of hunger he himself growl
Still never fails to fill our food bowl
Mourn continues, No solution in sight
Until another one commits suicide

Sitting in comforts, not realising even once
Why can’t we, be a help even an ounce?
We are fortunate enough to add them a mirth
A morsel with gratitude will be of worth

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