Poem by Dhruva Thapa.

A CUP of Tea.

I am sipping a cup of tea,
from the foothills
of the Himalayas.

More than a century ago,
Sons of the soil planted it.
Nurtured as their own kids
Sweat from their forehead
Buried their hopes and desires,
to give their kids a better life.

I heard they are still digging,
Their land for a lost identity.

Every morning, the toy train’s
steam whistle recalls
the queen of the hills
Their forefathers’ dreams
their pains and the screams.

only the planters know
the pain of the thorn.

Their dreams are still
filtered as the tea leaf.

sold globally as a fair trade.

every sip of the tea
I can clearly smell
their sweats and tears.