In the hush of an Indian village, where poverty whispered low,
Lived Haoboi the deaf, with calloused hands and a heart aglow.
Side by side with his family, they bent in the sun-scorched loam,
Pulling stubborn weeds from the soil that was their only home.
A bull broke loose like thunder, horns gleaming wild and free,
Charging silent fury—no sound for eyes that could not see.
His loved ones screamed in terror, voices raw and torn with dread,
But Haoboi kept working, deaf to every word they said.
From behind the horn struck deep, straight through his beating core,
A sudden, crimson silence—life spilled upon the dusty floor.
He fell without a whisper, eyes wide in final surprise,
While family rushed weeping, their world shattered by his cries.
Oh, the ache of that moment, love helpless in the breeze,
A poor man's quiet ending beneath the heartless trees.
In fields where hope is fragile and warnings fade unheard,
Haoboi's story lingers—a silent, aching word.
That is the end of the poem
Thank you all for reading this.