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.