In boughs of chakunda, in grassy hillock,
Sometimes, amidst the herd of grazing goats,
Nestled is he, the poet, if his prize stock
Designs his verses with brilliant quaint notes,
As sounds and sights of pastoral elegance
Become vibrant with moral blooms and beauties
Of sinless rural folk with pure conscience
And life with arts of nature-made luxuries.
And he, from height of fame as 'Goat-herd Poet',
Observes his playful goats in wonderment
How they've put on his head the crown of a laureate,
'So fill'd up his once poor life with enrichment...
Herd grows, wealth grows, grows soulful poetic number,
But none has notes on goats being slain by the butcher.
- N P Samal
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