Not just for a balm

He carries a wound that festers with smell, He fears within it, bad germs might dwell. Since losing his folks, he’s lost everything; Each morning, he wonders what life will bring. Each coin that he grasps, he holds with great care, For hunger and pain both watch him in fear. He eats little and soothes his pain with balm, His survival depends on what's in his palm. His parents are gone, yet grief roams each day; He lived through the nights with no place to stay. Yet kindness seems to have gone on a trip, Leaving only alms within his firm grip. Just twelve, yet his dreams have dissolved into dust, His pockets stay bare, life’s balance unjust. Despair fills his soul, ignoring his prayers, Alms can't dry up all his endless tears. How soon will death call to take him away? Compassion stands cold, anguish paves his way. He searches for help, but none can be found, Somehow, death's fear races all around.