We are in young age,
Sanking for daily wage;
Each day in the industry with cry,
With sounds of machines makes us dry.
The cry of the single child,
Makes everyone to be wild;
Everyone's, stomachs are tied with wet cloth,
And no one to fees our mouth.
We; in the studying age,
Has to carry the books in courage;
But, we in the dusty, smoky place,
Need to work for our case;
Every night weeping with pain
Legs and hands work for our gain.
We don't know to blame;
The face of angry - heaven's flame.

.    .    .