I came into this world
there wasn't a celebration,
there was no cradle to swing
i was just damned to starvation.
Never did i go to school,
never could i play a game.
Was only destined to bear
the enduring pain.
Half a pant covered me
be it the searing summers,
or i be shivering in the
cold winter's rain.
Grew up on the streets
became a rag picker.
That tag stuck to me
more like a bad sticker.
I went to work each day
embedded in anguish.
from their cars they
resented me
like cheap rubbish.
Once there was a crime
the police thought was mine.
I was beaten up with disdain,
I was literally being slain,
yet not a single eye
looked away in shame.
I kept crying, and pleaded
sir please, it's not me, it's not me
but no one was willing to see.
When he was caught
they just left me to be,
the rag picker i that
always shall be.
I cleared for them
their garbage but
no one patted me
and not a soul cried.
Not a soul came to me
asking me why?
Afterall,
I was just a rag picker
born to die.
Clearing all their garbage
there would lie.
' copyright 2009 siddharth singh.'
masterpeice ' i enjoy picking rags ' i feel rag picker needs to evolve from self pitty to enjoying his work
My dear Siddharth, the ragpicker need not ever cry now cos there are NGOs to help them there are lots of free schools to study too they could go to some mission free schools where education and i heard also housing is provided in India. Therefore one need not remain a ragpicker all their life whatever, your poem is lovely and a different theme which no one has picked on therefore for text and structure ill give you +++10 anjali
My thoughts go back to T. S. Eliot on reading your poem The rag picker—is dead. 'A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men' CP
a very emapthetic write; the plight of these children is harrowing to say the least. there is no dignity in their work. hiujacked childhood, who cares, you obviously do a very well written piece, hits straight at heart. do read a tryst with fate Mamta
‘…no one patted me / and not a soul cried. / Not a soul came to me / asking me why? Why Poet Siddhartha? you the poet laid your feeing heart for the rag picker …well poets have same psychic blood group ‘O’ Universal feeler [donor]…thanks for sharing 10 Ms. Nivedita UK
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'Grew up on the streets became a rag picker' Rachel Ann Butler