A petal among the thorns,
A light in the darkness,
An innocent lamb,
Thrown in the midst of the tigers
Ready to be torn into pieces.
Thou art born in this gory world
Struggling day and night
Labouring with silent tears,
That smile which were to be
On thy innocent face
Has vanished in pain
And labour monotonous
Born in this penury,
And dying of hunger.
When dawns the day
Its time to go to the fields
To garage, to restaurants and hotels
To houses, to rickshaw-pulling.
What not these little hands have to do.
Thy chopped hands,
Thy torn clothes,
Thy sullen face,
Upon that you are scorned.
Working harder than a grown-up man
Your share is a petty pay
Fed in crumbs, left over
By the meals of a previous day.
When children go to their schools
With satchels hanging by their sides
Riding in their bikes,
You with luggage on your back
With stones on your head
Or listening silently to an employer’s rebuke
Are wasting away your childhood,
You are like a withered flower
Aged prematurely.
What life is this?
Hard labour through the day
Little to feed on,
And tattered clothes.
The sun passes away
With the hope of its return,
The kids back from their schools
Are playing with their chums,
You are still labouring your labour
Without any education, any knowledge
Your life will be the same
By adolescence you’ll be middle-aged
And by middle age an old man
And before old age there will be death
Oh! What a vicious circle you are lost to
What life have you lived?
No childhood, no adulthood
Are you that child
Who were to be the father of man?
What will this labour bear?
No fruit, no flowers, only thorns bare.
