Both in the sun and rain
without umbrella
a boy beside the road
works ceaselessly from dawn to dusk
breaking bricks into pieces.
He entertains into his two eyes a dream desolate
of merely three handfuls of meals;
the dream certainly not for rich dishes— korma, kabab
nor for princely recipe on the table.
Still everyday he remains unfed
both in the sun and rain beside the road
passing his poisonous days.
O happy men, do you think of him once?
The New Year sprinkles links of love
in the breast of all.
Collecting those links, you, the rich people,
fill up your hands and eat up to your marks
all the things you like best.
But why does that boy remain this very day
helplessly unable to feed himself
with a single handful of plain rice?
