My rags make me work,
For the rich men who sleep,
inside their castles,
Their slumbers so deep,
I sleep too, when the darkness starts to fade,
Between me and the darkness there's an unfair trade.
We are old friends, I talk, he listens,
When he is there, even my dirty hand glistens,
When the sun comes up, I again realise,
That my hands are never clean, there are bags under my eyes.
I've waited for the wheels to change direction,
I've laboured with my family, with gloomy dejection,
I've swimmed in city sewers , cleaned the gutter,
I can't describe that feeling, I've no words to utter.
So used to the stench, I forgot how flowers smell,
So used to the lowly treatment, so used to living in hell,
Born with a broken broom, in pure filth I dwell,
Born with lots of hope and dreams, that I was forced to expel.
Darkness doesn't talk to me,
Our friendship is not fair,
But at least it lets me drown,
In the depths of my daily despair.
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*Dedicated to the people who earn their livelihood by cleaning other's shit, garbage, and what not. May God bless you, and give some compassion to people who think they are above all and entitled.
. .