They come from far off land to earn livelihood,
They have dreams in their eyes but their main concern is food.
They enter the city with an ambition to find the magical wand,
But they end up in the worst area of Mumbai which is the dumping ground.
They are the migrants, who end up being as rag pickers,
They live in cubical house surrounded by flies and a coat of their dreamy fur.
Dumping ground is a source of income for them,
They worship it as it has all the gems.
Children use it as a play area during the day,
And they end up finding the treasures which come across their way.
For them it is a mountain of mysteries and adventure,
They are free to take whatever they want to support family expenditure.
These children are immune to the hazards and dangers,
It seems that they live in a world of strangers.
They pick up garbage and sell it for money,
The nectar that flows inside them is bland or sour honey
Deprived of education and love they become care free,
They flow with the wind and enjoy the currents of the sea.
They are ignorant but clever,
They can build a mountain out of air with their strong endeavors.
Unaware of their difficulties we live in a world of our own,
They don’t complain and we keep on singing our song.
We live in our mansions and yearn for more,
They live in small cubes which don’t even have doors.
We are independent to make our own decisions,
But we lack concern for others and holistic vision.
We talk about inclusiveness in our policies all the time,
But the gap is increasing day by day and soon it will turn into an empty mine.