Young Hands1 min 142 1 min 142
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!