Bhola knows the weight of ten bricks together
arranged abiding by the laws of practical physics
on a small square shaped wooden plank.
He has carried the coarse weight
placed on the coiled cloth turban on his head
and climbed up many stairs to the hands of a mason
for some years to feed some mouths
whose souls weigh more than a pack of unkind bricks
on his yet to be enough strong shoulders.
The death of a workmate
as young as him
in falling off a lofty naked roof of a building
haunts him in his almost death like sleeps
but mornings bring him to the fated bricks.
His palms now wear a daily laborer hard skin
with some prized callous honor marks.
His wage against his early teenage
against his dented youth
stands a strong pillar to put up
the daily score of his family on the destiny board.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem