Poetry: The Workers' Song.

"I cleaned and cooked,

and washed and sewed,

I was a house-help".

"Used to cry and sell,

ringing my cart's bell,

I was a street vendor".

"Built roads and malls,

carried bricks for walls,

I was a site labourer."

"And though we fight,

each day, each night,

for food or shelter,

daily helter-skelter.

With nothing to give,

clueless how we'll live.

Accounting for millions and million,

Yet fading into oblivion,

perhaps for the ruler's dominion,

our deaths bring equilibrium.

As we starve or we die,

some backlash, sham and cry,

and again we'll just be a number,

failing to wake our motherland's slumber.

An inspiring read: Don't Quit

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