Will May help them
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They are still on platforms and
their dine is on roads
Their dresses are torn as rags but
they are creators of our life
May comes here every year but
their life is still poor with ters
Their hands are handling gold and silver but
still they are eating in mud and paper plates
Palaces and multistories are their creation but
they have their bed on the earth under a open sky
Come my man to change their lives
at least to have an hut and plastic trays for food
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem