Sitting beside the tea stall,
Sipping my tiredness away,
I see the children in the hall,
Carrying the stones in a difficult sway.
The scorching July sun shows no mercy,
As if these little souls deserve no pity,
The sweat and dirt has soiled their torn jersey,
Their filthy palms marked with lines of iniquity.
Returning the empty glass,
I walk up to the hall after paying a note,
"Why don't you send these children to class?
Someday, they might also wear a coat."
"It is easy for you to say so sire,
The windows of rich offices are opaque to reality,
Poverty is what these children have got in hire,
Their lives were destined the day they were born in this world of inequality."