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Poetry
Wheat is
pounded for flour for our bread
And paddy is threshed, for the rice we are fed
For wood, the martyrs are the trees
For juice - the fruit has to be squeezed
The worm is tortured, to give beautiful silk
The calf is starved, for our children's milk
No baby arrives without its mother's pain
Something is sacrificed for some other gain
When pain wrings out sensitive hearts
Exquisite moving poetry starts
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Shanta ~
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