Daily when I go to my class,
By this lane where our house stands
At ten each morning I pass
The vendor with wares in his hands.
“Bangles! Bangles!” he calls
His basket has porcelain dolls,
He takes the path that he likes,
He goes home to eat when he wants.
Whether it is ten or half past,
Never does he once fear delay.
I wish my slate I could toss
And go selling things that way.
|Source: Google Images|
Half-past four is the hour.
The gardener digs with a spade
In the rich man’s patch of flowers.
No one ever tells him to stop
On his feet lest the spade he drop.
His head and body gathers dust,
But his work no one shouts over.
Mother doesn’t give him clean shirts,
To wash the dirt she never wants.
I wish I could have been
The tender of those flower-plants.
It is hardly very late in the night
When mother sends me to bed.
I look out the window and sight
The guard with the turbaned head.
Darkened lane, few people go,
Dimly the gas lamps glow
Dangling a lantern in hand,
He stands at the doorstead.
The night goes from ten to eleven
“It’s late!” he never has to hear.
I wish I could be a guard
Awake alone in the lane here.