The Dream Lap
The time I get up I don’t know,
May be when the moon is bright.
May father takes me from my bed,
To put me in the factory bus.
Heaps of sulphur dry and wet
Waxen matchsticks long and short,
Scores of children counting them,
These I see from dawn to dusk.
My itching head I often scratch,
My sweating forehead I do wipe.
My drunken father grabs my wages.
Wealth and schooling not my dreams.
All my dream is perfect sleep,
With my head on mummy’s lap.
Warmth of bosom I should feel
With right and pride I must sleep.
BUT –
I
sleep off ere I reach home;
I
do not know where I sleep.
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