There they stand, heads bowed,
Mute; on their pale faces chronicled the suffering
Of many centuries; on their shoulders they bear burdens
Which grow; carrying on, slowly, till life holds,
And then they pass them on to the children, for generations.
Fate they do not curse, nor complain, remembering the gods;
Men they do not blame, nor cherish any pity of love
For themselves; only a few grains of food they glean,
And their tormented lives, somehow, keep alive.
When even that meagre food someone robs,
Or hurts their life in blind might's cruel oppression,
They know not to whose door they will turn to justice;
Calling on the God of the Poor, for once, in their heaving sighs,
Silently they die.
Rabindranath Tagore [Translated]
