Boy on a Swing

Slowly it moves
Tears jogging down my cheek
Born but homeless
In the developed bushy street
There I wander like a wanderer
Where trees gallantly standing
At their post like a ghost

I am an object of disdain
Every corner of the street
There I am enslaved
Rivers of savages visit me
Like a fountain flow
Gentle stones of mockery
Hitting me from every corner
Under the icy sun

Oh! What a nation
In the den of the affluence
Help is even helpless
And in the yard of the wretched
I am gifted with complaints

A world on it own
Nation where freedom is enslaved
Rich's castles in the air
And the plebs' in the mud his hut
Living like a church rat

Youths! Without common sense
Youth! Future of the nation, we say
Chasing air and dying for shadows
Which for a while it appears

One day at a time
Eager to be rich Without labour
Taking unreasonable risk
With no thorough examination
Tossing to and fro their futures and glory
Like a diamond cast before Pigs

When will life smile at me?
What will I in the future be?
When shall all these be?