Standing on a pedestal, they ask thyself
The expectations rise, to celestial heights
Problems rise like a vicious tide
Doing actions but we get no prize
Still day by day expectations rise
Little children going to school, burdened with a bag
Big fat books, I see them carrying, like one huge wheat-full sack
Pen, books and a scrap book,
teachers urge them to carry.
Diary, blotter and notebook even,
the colors you cannot parry.
Sweaty children with bony frames
with names like Rahul and Pinky
Tired, helpless coming home in pain
Are petite and awfully dinky
But spirits never down,
pain worn like a crown,
7 AM they start their march.
Along with them their mother, the guide,
feeds one whole nutritious breakfast.
Brave godsend gifts
Unwavering courage
Face smiling, actions often scrappy
They try to fill, life unfulfilled
By trying and being happy
