Half past eight is my age...
I work day and night for paltry wage...
I live, golloping from garbage ...
But one day,everything will change...
My skin is stained coal-black...
I sleep in a bed of brick stack...
My dream is to own a school bag...
But I pick rags in a dirty sack...
Heavy sacks of bricks made my spine sag
I've got not a thing like the others,to brag...
All this wearisome work is too much of a fag...
But even this can't, myself close to doomsday drag...
To be continued...
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My Childhood In Laborhood
PoetryThis is a melancholic poem that enunciates my condolences for the helpless child labourers,who still prevail inspite of so many laws against child labor,that are uselessly framed,sure to serve a solace to those innocent buds who are prohibited from...
