Where The Fields Still Speak Poem by ashok jadhav

At dawn I walked the winding lane
Where dew lay soft on broken stone,
The fields breathed slow, the sky was pale,
And I was not—yet not alone.
The river hummed a patient tune,
The banyan spread its ancient shade;
It asked no questions, sought no gold,
Yet healed the wounds my years had made.
In lonely hills I learned to hear
The quiet truths no crowds can tell;
The grass, the wind, the patient soil
Taught lessons books could never spell.
A farmer bent beneath the sun,
His clothes were torn, his hands were bare;
Yet in his eyes lived steady pride,
A silent strength born of despair.
When summer burned, my heart burned too;
In monsoon rains, my tears ran free;
In winter's hush, my thoughts lay still—
The seasons spoke the truth of me.
I was a child who chased the clouds,
Who named the stars and trusted trees;
The earth then felt like living kin,
A mother's hand, a soft embrace.
Now cities rise with iron breath,
With sleepless lights and hollow cries;
They trade the sky for screens of glass
And sell the soul for hurried lives.
So still I return to field and stream,
Where simple hearts and sparrows dwell;
For there, in nature's quiet arms,
I find the self I knew so well.