He is a little pauper
Short, skinny and pale
Collar bones abnormally out,
Ribs seen through the dark skin.
Clothed in rugs and barefooted
He has his hair long, untidy, dry.
His eyes, sore with tears
Seek solutions to his miseries
His tale, a portrayal of his
innocence
On every doorstep, he calls
With a hope to get something good,
With a strong desire to live
In this false, inhuman world
Of heartless, powerful people
It isn’t that he’s just refused
He’s made fun of, rather abused
Yet, he’s sober. He can’t fight back
Self-respect he’s supposed to lack
Can’t hum with the wind
To the warmth of sunshine, he’s blind
He knows the world as it is.
Every new dawn,
A struggle to keep his soul alive
But still, in his heart
He has a longing,
A longing to live…
Roaming about on the streets
From dawn to dusk,
He gets a chance to remain alive;
Silver coins from pockets
Of a few good hearted fellows
Fill his little bowl—
The only source of his meagre income.
Thus, this child fills his paunch
Keeping himself partly covered,
Shivering and shivering.
Sometimes little tears
From the corner of his eyes
Falls on his ‘vessel of hope’,
When the day’s bad
And the basin remains empty.
That night, he stays hungry
Empty stomach aching.
Such are his days
When people on earth
Are also dwelling in castles and
palaces.
His roof is the zenith high,
And music is the zephyr…
Stars accompany him at night,
And the moon gives him some light.
"Honesty won't get you anywhere;sell it
For the want of bread, be one with the crowd
Bleed for your sake; for those who have ample
All they know and seek is to trample", he's told
No one questions him his origin,
which
He himself doesn’t know,
And do not even like to know!
Realizing the futility of his
existence
With an empty bowl as the sole
comrade
He strides on, for his journey has
just begun
With every rising sun!
-----Tezaswita & Bhaskar
In this city of towers and smoke
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