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Migrant workers and street children
Tarek Hasan

I do not sleep on eyes
Early action is away on leave
I have the luxury of back pain.

I did not question my race today
Abroad my identity?
Most of the walls are stained the conscience of the question
Minded as unwanted, what is the worst?

There is still the heart of the depression fall down.
Logo people tarite torn sail the way,
Common goal pursued by the will-o'-the-wisp
Children in memory of the way up the wall of the picture .

Children born faceless way, why?
Why is he silent, still did not answer
Human cruelty, not their distant
They are hated, god luck on the way out
There's still retired, their running play.

Sometimes the station the station never seen Mohakhali, Jatrabari, Gabtoli intersection,
Look out the rotten dumps to drain the water heater,
Sometimes the traveler exile
Sometimes money Sadarghat two porters.

The way they address their shelterless
There is no guidance on the identity of their birth,
They are sitting next to dumps
The smell of rotten rice spread on the nose,
When fatigue, happiness nest don't find 
Do not fall asleep on the way to the park,
I space where foreigners with them.

Hard job labor malicious belly
I went down the road where there Pedestrian
Is next to the trash cans at them,
Nonra afternoon sat down with hand-goody
it does not smell like an owl.

There is no identity of their birth but spent the day
And so what I have received,
What is the way I walked Logo
Lived my life the ultimate curse.

When fatigue overheating on the labor body
Not finding the shadow of the vacation home
Fall asleep by the side of the road, with the head of bricks
And they do not mind, I
And do not be sad whisper, not torn,
I am a migrant worker, my identity
Today, the street children.

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