The poor daughter of India
I see her sweeping the floor of the courtyard at daybreak
Into the hamlet homes,
Throwing the ashes from the earthen oven
And washing the utensils.
The poor girl-child of India, neglected an ignored,
Half-fed and half-clothed,
Clumsy and soiled,
I can see her helping her mother
In household works,
Carrying her younger brother in her lap.
Her frock is faded and torn,
The hair unoiled,
She taking food,
Just the left-overs of her brother,
Late in the day.
Father’s home is not her home
As she has to go to another home,
A daughter not own,
But of the other men,
O, how can it be?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem