There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road 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 the 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.