O dear people, do not wear fear, for it is just me, all alone here.
The dress exotic with turban of silk,
The clothes of a man, worn not by his ilk.
Yes! I am a woman, a trader of spice;
Saffron, Cardamon, Tobacco; each bears a price.
I live in these parts – not far, over thar; we live as hand-crafters, devotees of arts.
Our village is tranquil, a haven for lost soul;
We suffer the frenzied, in peace as a toll.
To friend we offer kinship, a rest for their cares;
To foe; Pah! Good luck! Poorly they fares.
Words and pics: ©DJA 2016.
The Angry Farmer 