Though barely clad,
He was fully attired
With chocolates of mud,
Which even pasted
A leg-burrow
Of a small
Walking scarecrow,
What a sorrow!

A sore -eyed
And malnourished child
That developed
A log bandy
'cause buckling from
A pot-belly
Subject to ailments every
Prominently Kwashiorkor
And scurvy
By twist of fate
Pushed out
To the street
To sleep he used
By every bus-stand,
An orphan boy, poor
Showered with
A heavy downpour!

A biting cold untold
With a face
Smile wrinkled
He weathered,
Despite an urge
For a morsel of bread.

A dog rabid,  moreover
He was chased
From every nook and corner!

Mixed with boys of his kind
From the street
For freedom with a bent,
One night
To the bone chilled
By a cold wind
On the morrow dead
He was found!

The sought for warmth
He acquired in his death!

Yet fellow citizens
Are busy to take note
To hundreds of his sort!

It is surprising indeed
No one gives a heed
To the challenge of God
“Have you visited
Your brother in need?”

From my Book 'A Vent to Stifled Emotions'