(To labors of Iron Ore mines of India)
I am a labor
Place where I work, smells with
My sweet and moisture of hutment
In summer sun drops the sharp rays on my bare shoulders
I am not miserable, I am a labor.
My master walks on a velvet carpet,
Evergreen spring flows in his bungalow
I will meet him and say a lot of things,
I am far from him; my hopes are not dim.
In this iron ore mine of a big industrialist,
My hands are numb,
In a very strange region
My hammer and sickles are lost.
My friends have been killed,
Hopes of utopia was just spilled,
In the long phase of this mechanical battle
Machines are laughing on me and my friends are severing.
I am thinking in chaos,
I am left alone at the martyr's pillar.
I am a labor.