Afloat in the land of the endless sand

From my beautiful high rise perch in Dubai, I woke up everyday to see Indian menial workers and laborers toil under 50 degree desert sun, to build towers that touched the skies, so people like me could inhabit them, and live in style, while they lived in tiny hutments made out of tin. The sight never failed to depress me.

Bright city lights beckoned the boy from the town
And at the break of dawn
He looked around and saw,
A city of minarets, tall towers, and jungles of concrete
A visual treat
Bustling with men in yellow hats
Worried, sun scarred faces
With kids back home, and a wife.
So they put up with the strife
They toil, and weather the heat.
Lord, this has got them beat.
Soiled, wrinkled hands tell many a story
Many are sorry
Hopes undone, dreams shattered
Battered and tattered.
Look how we exploit their need
Look how they bleed to feed our greed
To a build a better life for our seed
But are they a different breed?
Why then the sweat and the toil?
Why then the blisters and boils?

I am lost
I often question
And there are no answers at hand
For I am afloat in the land of the endless sand