When you swayed in swings,
we trembled starving.
When you voiced for better living,
we dreamt for some means of existence.
The life you commend dared to pity us -
and we resent not your opulence.
We plough, tire and toil at last to ruin.
We dire in sludge and slush -and
Our nerve threadbare unravel voices
That only bleed, gush and shriek in silence.
Wordless is our voices, that heeds no ear;
Shattered are our dreams like broken sills.
And with all that is broken - remain
Those lost lives that naught shrill, but ever still.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem