His spade wakes up dreams in the sand. His muscles roll as the tires of a tractor. There’s an anxiety proof mind in his iron body. His roots are mulched with modesty. Serenity curls up within his mind’s void. He rests on the margin, chewing betel. Progeny of the peasants plow pages of Facebook and WhatsApp, while seeds of concrete buildings sprout in the fields. Pomp and pride can’t sooth stomachs, people forget. Robots will land in the limited farms. And children will laugh at Koran’s textbook picture, half-naked with his legs in mud. *From my book, "Eternal Fragments", published by erbacce press, UK. *This poem portrays a traditional Keralite farmer.