The Toilers

As I look around this dear old earth

I see the vast wave of common mass traversing by diverse ways

the endless track from life to death,

urged on by common human needs

from times immemorial.

 

It is they that row

and they that sit at the helm.

It is they that sow the seeds

and they that toil at the harvest.

They remain the same through ages

—the toilers.

 

The spectres snap,

the war-drums beat no more,

columns of victory

stand in stupid silence,

bloodshot eyes and bloodstained hands

hide in history’s pages.

 

But they toil on

at home and abroad,

by the sea and by the rivers,

here and there and everywhere.

 

Their million voices mingle in a song,

their grief and joy of everyday

harmonise in a mighty hymn to Life.

 

Empires have passsed away

and on their ashes and ruins

they ply their daily round

—the toilers.

1941 Rabindranath Tagore