He sits in silence on a bus
A train, a coffee shop or pub
Most people pass him by because
His clothes are worn and stained
The worker is an unsung man
Who digs and hews and sweeps
With little to look forward to
When evening gently falls
His eyes are glazed from routine jobs
Back hunched though he's still young
A layer of resignation rests
On his much wearied frame
For centuries our world has spawned
The workman for our needs
Yet when we see him on the bus
No one says thanks to him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem