For hours on end, they sift through the trash,
Trying to earn some petty cash.
These children make such a sorrowful sight;
Many of us are not aware of their plight.
Many have no shoes upon their feet.
They toil beneath the sun's fierce heat.
Many are dressed in nothing but rags.
Some things they find make them gag.
Their faces are often streaked with dirt.
They feel they have very little self-worth.
In the midday sun, they toil and sweat.
A pittance, for their work, is all they get.
They search for glass and old tin cans,
Pieces of wood and old pots and pans.
They throw their ‘treasure' in to sacks.
Each day, they nearly break their backs.
They find themselves hounded by police,
When all they wish for is some peace.
They are often injured or get ill,
But, for them, there is no magic pill.
They should be in school; they wish to learn,
But, beneath the sun, each day they burn.
They dream of the day when they'll be rich,
And not have to wash in some dirty ditch.
Every day, these poor children pray
That a brighter future will come their way.
They pray that they can leave the streets,
And fill their bellies with nice things to eat.
They dream at night of a future that's bright.
At the end of the tunnel, they hope there's light.
Their days as rag pickers, they'll leave behind,
And a brand new life, they hope they'll find.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Rag Pickers by Angela Wybrow )
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