Young Hands

Look at my hands, rough, dry, pallid

They spark out, when rubbed with wall, solid,

When I starve on the school’s corridor, when

Dispersal knocks the gong, then

I think of the cruel contractor, kin of Satan,

Who bakes me, then I beg, and sometimes get beaten.

My eyes so dry, my heart to cry

But mouth to repeat lessons, why?

My path is paved, engraved with pain,

Nourished with education, what do I gain?

My stomach is hollow, and I still have no halo,

Is this the fruit I reap?

I sustain a family of seven,

Still five years that I’ll be eleven;

Why you gave me this life, father

When you had nothing to keep me going, farther?

I strive each second, I pray each day,

God! Give me heaven to stay,

I am breaking, but I don’t cry,

Look at my hands, so rough, so dry!