Life is not just a piece of bread
For breakfast
with a cup of coffee in the morning
Although street children were fighting over a loaf of bread
From the master and mistress
Who threw him from a train window
In the morning

Not only that
When their hands
under the window catch a train tonight
The hands were cold,
losing hope
Because in the fields and fields that
Now been established factories
That the gate is always closed
For them

The hands that need work
That they can
Just swing the scythe
Cultivate the soil, sowing seeds