He has farmer's hands.
With these hands he's
dragged the boulder of generations.
It is said that posterity
Will prove the elders wrong.
He's cutting stones
Sculpting history.
He's among the throng.
His hands,
callused caressing carcasses
of many moments, are warm.
He still has farmer's hands,
He's an elder now.
WRITTEN BY SAMUDRA BHOWMICK