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On Seasonal Harvests



With a tie as big as his balls and a blazer
It suits with the colour of the ceiling of his room
An unknown officer
He storms into that privileged government’s workstation  
From there several distinguished people have served
It was told once too many suns ago:
Unfortunate people, helpless people, downtrodden people
They have been saved from starvation and death.
And now the officer almost squeaks
It’s been only twenty deaths this year
It was forty-five in the same quarter last year.
As a good human being I note it down carefully
The dead people be damned; let there be more excitement
So I’m going to a village,
Once I had counted the number of death out there
All I found were insects and mosquitoes
Who cares about insects and mosquitoes?
I’m going to that village again,
As things have changed, I would want to see
How many lesser mortals have joined the army?
How many lesser mortals have been researching
How many even lesser mortals have been fighting the power?
I’m going now; I don’t know when I will return
What is more important is my project report
That’s how I survive as a worker in this cruel world
And they call me a fucking NGO activist.




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