Daily Wages

In a corner of blue sky

The mill of night whistles

A white thick smoke

Pours from the moon chimney

In dreams many furnaces

Laborer low

Is stocking all the fires.

I earn our meeting

Holding you for a while

My day’s wages.

I buy my souls food

cook and eat it

And set the empty pot in the corner.

I warm my hands at the dying fire

And lying down to rest

Give God thanks.

The mill of night whistles

And from the moon-chimney

Smoke rises, sign of hope.

I eat what i earn,

Not yesterday’s leftovers

And leave no grain for tomorrow.

– A Poem by Amrita Pritam

 

 

 

 

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