deja vu ( a poem about child labour)

I could not see that tear that oozed out of my eyes that night

When under the blue umbrella, I remembered her sight

She, my mom, could explain what it meant

If she were here, my smile would have been more than just a dent.

They took me from my garbage heaven,

 I thought I knew the meaning of cloud nine

Those plutocrats whom I deify, made me blind

Boiled my eyes, made me beg, made me grind

I am a 10-year-old blind beggar, who is destined not to have any fate

Thank God!! At least I can’t see, this world’s face of hate

I categorically am suffering from CHID LABOUR….

Heard of it…. Déjà vu… isn’t it…

I am a small 8-year-old girl

After I came here my life is null

My father sold me to a brothel to pay his debts

Each day I am harassed by an armada of animals

 Who, disposition is of humans, can relinquish their needs via me?

Who will I be when I grow up? ‘A prostitute’ comes an instant patronymic reply

Thank God!! At least my father has scrimmaged a lot of money

I categorically am suffering from CHILD ABUSE…

Heard of it… Déjà vu… isn’t it…

I am a 7-year-old boy, who works at construction sites

Ask me of plumbing or of bricks, but no one ever told me what’s 1+5

I sometimes dream of living in a larder

Then I am jerked with a canapé in stomach

I am the only earner of the family

But still my father bets us and sleeps calmly

Our presence is seen as a gauche deed

We wait for an equinox , when our dark penury nights will match the days of rich

Let me ameliorate myself if I blame god ‘cause that is erroneous

Actually, I am categorically suffering from LOST CHILDHOOD…

Heard of it… Déjà vu… isn’t it…

If still these stories don’t sound familiar

Please show me your world, will you share

Where childhood and adolescence is not snatched

But is secured and bloomed till it is hatched

Where these Déjà vu’s never exist

And the eyes are filled with dreams instead of mist

Every child is an innocent talisman of our world

Their aching heart is a mayday of help

SOS….is echoed from their stitched mouths

Death is what they demand in such a gullible stage of life

These children are a part of god’s face

For once, see them as children, not labourers, and see the change.

by naina madan