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There was a farmer, tired and slow,
Too weak to reap, too dull to sow.
His fields lay barren, weeds ran free,
Yet hunger’s grip he chose not to see.
A single grain—a meager prize,
Boiled for soup, yet kept alive.
Sip by sip, day by day,
Content to waste his life away.
The village folk would shake their heads,
"Till your land," the elders said.
"Grow your crop, let harvest rise!"
But he lived off broth from a single rice.
Then came a rat with cunning eyes,
A silent thief in midnight guise.
It snatched the grain and scurried fast,
And so was gone his meager stash.
The farmer woke, his rice was lost,
His belly ached, he felt the cost.
Yet rather than toil, rather than fight,
He lay in hunger, lost to night.
Too weak to work, too proud to beg,
He withered down to skin and leg.
And so he starved, his tale now told—
A lesson left for young and old.
For those who slumber while others strive,
May find no grain to keep alive.
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