The village man has come to our Gaon His weathered face gazes at our tall grey buildings The 20 lane highways are certainly bigger than the lanes back home He is not sure whether he likes it here. His gaon has clean air and lush green fields The floors here are shiny, but he prefers the grass under his feet His turbaned head contemplates his life here Unlike his village, no one sleeps here hungry Maybe for a few years, he will stick with our Gaon