In roar, red hot furnaces burn,
they fight with fire and earn.
The stones melt and not men,
and they labour alone in pain.
With coal and tar, pitch they make,
paving easy roads for people's sake.
The smoothen the path we tread,
drain their sweat for daily bread.
Through centuries their hopes foiled,
yet with honesty they always toiled.
Grief, betrayal and shattered hope,
a revolt is in making with no scope!
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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