Fancy cars speeding in every direction,
How the rich kids make an impression!
Extravagance and enjoyment are their rights,
There are no resentments and no fights.
But look at those children so different, I pray,
Those whose childhood has been snatched away…
See their tender hands loading coals on the truck,
Hands that are thin and covered in muck.
Their black grimy faces where their hopes are dying,
Their sunken eyes show they’re tired of crying.
Their cuts and bruises are far from healing,
Their senses are numb; they have no feeling.
Those hands that are meant for study and play
Should they be working and labouring all day?
Loved and protected, filled with laughter wild,
Should this not be the profile of a child?
They gaze longingly at the children’s park,
And pray that God should end their dark.
And pull them out from those mires of griefs,
For those circumstances are their childhood’s thieves!!
As I get up to walk back alone,
My pain is deep, it makes me groan…
Tears fill my eyes, my conscience screams,
To see those rough hands and shattered dreams…..