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A tale of India's poor, a sorrowful plight,
See how their frames are but skeletal light.
Their bodies draped in a decaying shroud,
A filthy hut, their only crowded cloud.
A tomb that yawns, as if weeping aloud,
The tear-filled eyes, their life’s bitter tide,
A tale of India's poor.

Their children, starved, and naked they roam,
Weeping and wailing, far from their home.
Their mothers and sisters, with a single worn gown,
Until death, they wear it, then burn it down.
Living a death, this is their fate shown,
A tale of India's poor.

The smoke-filled clouds that rise from the mills,
The worker’s deep sighs, the heart of him spills.
Millions of brothers who till the hard land,
Their youth cries out, a desolate stand.
Their hungry youth, in the fields, they expand,
A tale of India's poor.

Awake, my brothers, let the drum now resound,
Bring the palaces to hut-level ground.
Show the world that you, too, are human and bound,
Kick away the oppressors, let no tyrant be found.
Erase the traces of the cruel, unsound,
A tale of India's poor.