His tender pink palms had become coarse...
Caked in red dust-
Of the bricks he had carried,
In the baking heat of noontide..
Hardly had he seen six summers of life,
When he comprehended life was convuluted..
He wipes his sweaty face,
Pining for some repose..
But his callous boss bellows-
"Go to work!"
Slowly he lifts up his fatigued body
And picks up the bricks,
While his parents slog at the fields..
A down at heel childhood,
No education or extravagant toys to play with...
He just carries the bricks in his pink palms,
Oblivious of life's long struggle that lay ahead ..
P