Oldie but goldie, Poetry

I saw a child today.

He had no toys.

He was playing with a feather,

But his face shone with joy.

He had no shoes on

His tiny bare feet,

Dusty, innocent features

Smiling on the street.

Tattered and torn, his clothes,

Yet, lost in a childhood bliss.

A nameless street urchin.

If he died, nobody wouldn’t miss.

A carefree reverie, a worryless mien.

A child of the destitute.

Probably never to read or write.

Probably to die destitute.

Probably if some one cares

He’ll learn to work and be a man

And feed his numerous siblings.

Always the ignorant Chotta, the unread man.


One thought on “Chotta. 

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