Blood on lilies. …… ( to a child-laborer) Streaks of blood on lilies- The wounds on his tender little fingers. Nimble feet, tired and chapped are over-powered in the challenge of race, The race of the world ! Young, blank, tanned hard face… Waxen- white startled eyes, stare at the cruel, cheerless world. He is a bloom, bloomed to die in the harshness of humanity, He is a netted fish, pining to join the brimming river of childhood gaiety and joy ! When half of the Nation sleeps on golden harvest his little hands will never know leisure or rest, and people treat them as worthless reeds when it comes to paying him for his laborious deeds. Sympathy is a rare commodity, Mirth is a mirage, his life is a thorny stem, sans any rose ! His tears out-wash the smiles and laughter which any child is entitled to, He is bound in servile chains, in oppression and pains. He is a CHILD, yet a servitor A child labourer, Is it a human concept to have a child toil for man ??