the Story of a tea-picker

The story of a tea-picker
===============
My story is
made in the
mountains.

The valleys
The tropical lands
The sun-kissed slopes
the rain-drenched forests

The manicured gardens
The dishelved bushes
The rich forests
The denuded rivers
mean the same to me.

I enjoy
The strong scent of
the first monsoon drops
on the soil.

I get caressed by
the gentle breeze
along the slopes
on a misty evening.

I may wear tattered
clothes, but
I do wear bright colours
To complement
the greenery.

The fruit of my sweat
reaches many a tea-cup
in far-away lands.

Though I continue
my humble beginnings-
probably towards
an humble end.

I take in the soil,
The fresh breath of
the misty mountains
The dewdrops early morn
And the shrill
Of the early morning peacocks.

Until the soil takes me in.
And gives me rest
Right next
to the very bushes
I grew
and grew up with.