A Different Kind of Child

I could retrace his footprints on the tar, Vice-versa the city’s tar on his feet. He made a tour each day around the town, Not on a flight, or bike, or in a fleet. His chants renowned to all the city walls, Thus has become his song of liberty. From on the floor, he picks supplies that fall, And makes a life from all that we don’t need. His tainted eyes never shadowed his smile, Nor did his famished lungs disappoint him. His hope stayed longer than the river Nile, As if it never poured into the seas. He’d think about his mother; gone! And sad, He’d start to think of how to feed himself, To also clothe his body after bath, At whence he would ponder about a birth. I could filter his chantries from your soul, I would be firm and would wield no doubt, He’s voice would be the one that pleads the most, He’s song would be the one which is so sad. At dusk, I traced his footprints on the tar, Surely I traced I traced his careworn steps alone. And hoped so much his house would not be far, To find I traced an orphan with no home.