no toys,
no colourful balls,
no squeaking dolls
to play with....
he plays with round stones
yet so happy and contended,
for he knows none other,
the little labourers child,
naked and filthy,
yet happy in his world,
sitting on a mound of dirt,
playing happily,
while his mother labours,
under the hot burning Indian sun,
for two pieces of bread,
for the family...
be thankful for His grace.........
for that child could have been you...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
naked and filthy, yet happy in his world, sitting on a mound of dirt, playing happily, while his mother labours, .......working in hot sun The grass roots, it is universally accepted -pain to a look and care(but to a hook) , they are mere prey and the real price for our pricking....cracks.