Looking upon Tea Gardens

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What is my poetry If it could not speak Of the pains of the laborer woman Standing among the whispering tea bushes Her fingers plucking leaves deftly And collecting in the basket behind her back Her heart carries heavier burdens What is my poetry ! If it can't utter her silent sighs Nothing but bablery! In my mother's womb Smelt the perfume of the tea leaves And heard more than times thousand The breath of her silent sighs! My forearms suffered bruises long And some so deep that The marks have remained till today If no drops oi blood fell on the thirsty earth As words of my adoration What is my poetry! Nothing but foolery! Angelic children are born here To lose their innocence Knowing not whence will come Their next square meal The tender fingers turn black plucking leaves Thorny brambles abound their quarters If I didn't suffer with the innocence What is my poetry! Just clownery! N.B. - These words were probably written eleven or twelve years ago. I was born in a tea estate and grew among workers' quarters. I also worked in the tea gardens and the tea factory. The memories of my years in the tea estate are still fresh and alive in my mind!