Why am I burdened
By bricks and sands?
When I, at this age, am ought
To be burdened
By books and bags.

Why am I made to beg
Around cars on busy streets and risky highways?
When I, at this age, am ought
To play with cars at my safe home.

Why am I taught to use
Sharp and edgy chisels and shovels?
When I, at this age, am ought
To be taught of writing with pens and pencils.

Why do my eyes
See the evil of child labour?
When they, at this age, are ought
To see the beauty of the world.

Why are my hands
Cut and roughened with moil?
When they, at this age, are ought
To be soft, writing my thought.

Why do my feet
Toil on harsh soil?
When they, at this age, are ought
To be floaty on the tender grass.

Every time I’m lost daydreaming,
I’m captivated by my dreams
But every time reality strikes,
I’m captivated to labour;
How do I dream of a prodigy?
When I see, in reality, the drudgery of labour

Every time I see a privileged child,
I’m alacrified to question him that,
Why he enjoys blissdom of life
And I the melancholy of turmoil?
But why question those who have
Nothing to do with my injustice?

So I question every person
Who makes a child to labour,
I question every parent
Whose child is a labour and not a student,
I question all those ignorant people
Who know of child labour and
Yet are unheeding this evil that:

Why this injustice?
Why are we deprived,
Not merely of education, but of our dreams?
Why this difference,
When we are all god’s children?
Why oh why child labour?