Sitting on a bench
I see them sleeping
On the cold concrete
Of the platforms
Covered with tattered
Blankets I watch them
Shivering in biting cold
The dirt smeared faces
Of the babies are
Hidden in the bosoms
Of famishing mothers
They dream for next days
Alms not silver or gold
Whistle from trains
Wakes them up and
Sometimes they get
Trampled by hurried
Passengers cursing them
For blocking the path
They have been living
Here since years during
Rain, summer and cold
This is a common scene in my country also. Appreciate the poet's compassionate eyes which saw the scene differently from others, and the kind heart which composed this poem. Well done, Tiku!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A ugly real pictorization of life that is so difficult. Very well written. Thank-you sir. We all need to remember this and respect and render a supporting hand.