When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our br lane. br Every day I meet the hawker crying, "Bangles, crystal br bangles!" br There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must br take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home. br I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, br "Bangles, crystal bangles!" br When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school, br I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging br the ground. br He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes br with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or br gets wet. br I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with br nobody to stop me from digging. br Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to br bed, br I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and br down. br The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like br a giant with one red eye in its head. br The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at br his side, and never once goes to bed in his life. br I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, br chasing the shadows with my lantern.