The Fruitful Fields of Maharashtra

by Robert Leach

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Where have all the riches gone?

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...From the work of the woman

Seated Buddha - like amid

Sprawls of purple onions,

Sorting, sorting?

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...From the sweating farmhand

His swift hoe lopping and slashing

At dusty outshoots

Of burgeoning sugar cane?

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...From the mother and daughters

Herding scrawny recalcitrant billy goats

Over earth's dry crust

Towards possible pastures?

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Does the drongo on the telephone wire know

Who works and who hurts?

Does the gliding, soaring, floating kite know

Who gets whose deserts?

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