The Sun

The wonderful ball of fire

Fills the earth with light

The poor peasants in the fields

Work harder than ants

And shimmer in beads of sweat

Yet they love the sun

And seem to feel its warmth and light

Not its grueling heat

They remain grateful even to the sun

For never will they forget

To love, give and receive.

Seldom do they have their fill

For the rich enjoy their harvest.

And though the peasants sow, water and reap

It ‘s the rich who enjoy the harvest.

The rich don’t feel its warmth

They seem to feel only its heat

Their eyes shine when they see money

The rich like parasites

Don’t sow, reap or harvest

But have plenty to eat.

ANUSHA.U.R.

11 yrs