No, he did not fall there by chance.
A farmer knows his fields better than
The back of his hands.
Every piece of soil, every blade of grass
Touched, caressed and felt.
Every crack, hole, stone examined
By the mature, dry eyes.
Every corner, trod upon,
By worn and often tired feet.
He could not have killed himself
Not like this, in his own field
Inside a hole, barely large to hold him
He would have been suffocated,
He disliked closed spaces, you see
Used to sleeping and chatting in the open
Under the roof of sky.
He could have been killed though
And dumped there
In this hole
There is no blood visible
But the colour is hard to miss
There are no visible marks
But the grip of hands one can feel,
Who? you ask?
All.
He might have been working,
Digging a hole,
In hope of water,
Or god knows what
Spurned by all.
But who else did he have
Where else could he go,
He might have simply perished
Exhausted and thirsty.
In the heat
That has claimed
Even the last drop of water.
