Flotsams of society, their fragile bones wearing patinas of flesh and skin,
they employ themselves:
to pick rags discarded by the children of superior Gods.
Technically un-bonded, laws do not brand them child labour.
Straddling their homes, shielded by few feet of air,
from the booted feet of passers by,
they patch fragments of picked up rugs to trap their sorrows, their constant pals,
that assure them of unfailing warmth:
warmth that is cold somehow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Really though provoking poem. Nice issue raised through this poem. Children should be taken care up. Nice poem.