The child with tired eyes
sits there with no choice
goes about in endless tries
folds the leaves in speed
knows not its end-use and need
the tenderness of the hand is lost indeed.
wrinkled the tiny fingers look
mangled they seem almost hooked
yet the tiny hands manipulate without brook
with tears in the eyes welling 
and pain in the face pricking
a meagre amount in the pocket filling
the innocent eight-year-old turns responsible.
Meenas Poems 