When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane.

Every day I meet the hawker crying, 'Bangles, crystal bangles!'

There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no he must take, no

place he must go to, no time when he must come home.

I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying. 'Bangles, crystal bangles!'

When at four in the afternoon I come back from school,

I can see through the gate of that

house the gardener digging the ground.

He does what he likes with his

spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task

if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet.

I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with nobody

to stop me from digging.

Just as it gets dark in the evening

and my mother sends me to bed,

I can see through my open window

the watchman walking up and down.

The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant

with one red eye in its head.

The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his

side, and never once goes to bed in his life.

I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, chasing the

shadows with my lantern.