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In the indifferent desiccated wasteland 
obscure tufts of slender grass 
struggle to rise from cleavage of ruthless rocks,
their tips holding the pearls of dew drops
sparkling in the shine of the rising sun.
I see in them the faces of children of fate
lighted by the waning smile of residual innocence,
although regrettably for them the sun rises
with no rays of hope, no tinge of dream,
for it has already set in the dark future horizon.

The infirm dew drops don’t bejewel the grass,
they’re tarnished by the dirt of our times.
In harsh winds of servitude 
they toil, uncared and soiled,
they dry and disappear, ignored and abandoned.
In the glare of the blazing sun
the dreams of dew die premature.

It pains me, it hurts me
to see their blank colorless faces 
carrying the vestiges of joy of juvenile splendor
flowing in tears, drowning in depth of obscurity,
Nobody helps, doesn’t hold their hands,
nobody cares, doesn’t take them to shore.

In my twilight hours
I wish to give the last rays of my sun
to the hue-less dews so they can glow,
I wish to drip the last drop of empathy
so their innocent smile doesn’t dry,
I wish to show the children of deprivation
the dreams of dew that never dies.


April 4, 2019
(This poem is a protest against child labor)

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