They build our homes,
But are themselves homeless;
They build our schools,
But continue to be illiterate;
They transport our goods,
But themselves own no goods;
They dig wells for us,
But have no money to quench their thirst;
They grow grains for us,
But have none to satisfy their hunger;
They cut wood for us,
But can’t afford wood for their pyre;
They work in the scorching heat,
And in the biting cold;
They work when it rains,
and even in stinking drains,
Just to earn some money,
To earn even stale bread and honey,
They are born on soil,
They live on soil,
They work on soil,
They go back to soil,
They are the labourers, who are
The real children of soil.