Street child
He knows no night or day;
no future dreams dwell within him.
His is survival—nothing more.
He wakes up early to supervise
the street activities,
hunting his treasures in bins.
At least a bite would silence the talking belly.
His hard work is not worth a penny;
he can’t negotiate with an empty belly anyway.
So he’s ever willing to make a mountain
just for a plate of food.
As the night gives rest at everyone’s door,
he is always forgotten, for he has no door.
His head is ever open,
yet occupied from the inside
by toxic liquids and drug smokes.
This is the only state of sleep he knows.
His mind, shattered by the cruelty of nature.
In this condition, he patrols all the streetlights
in just a night,
looking for free items to add to his store.
Thanks to his arrogance and fast speed,
it’s either fight and take or grab and run.
Survival is what matters to him,
not the injuries or the beatings.
This is the street where he belongs—
the most beloved home he has built
from dirty boxes and stolen rugs:
a home no one sees as home.
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