He is only six year-old and goes to school in the morning; after lunch, everyday, he has to split bamboo sticks until evening so that his mother could sell at the market. His father is sick and needs some money to have an operation done.
Your tears flow so sadly,
In dark streams on your dirty face.
One by one, slowly they fall,
On the bamboo sticks, the wicker stalks,
That your swollen hands strain to weave.
Respite dusks are so far away,
To bring a halt to your harsh days.
Until then, your tired and swollen hands,
Are forced to weave baskets, to interlace strands,
To be sold at the village gathering,
At sunrise, the following morning,
Money for daddy's medications, to bring in.
Huynh Anh Schroeder