By Arpita Singh
Wounds running sore in black, some lacking in attention,
While many a festered, and out in misery, flows the yellow blood,
The little souls roaming about the lanes, banished by a fate so harshly unrelenting;
Covered in earthen dirt, raking in accepted negligence;
In a blind race for survival, the poor lives tear down the boundaries between the inexistent good and the inevitable evil.
At times, they fight the rage of the sun, devoting their beliefs to day long quests of a few pennies,
Bluffing the adamant hunger and deadening thirst, they solicit meagre alms for themselves.
At times, their tiny frames draped in patched rags, tremble in the cold nights,
Battered by the inadequacy of resources, they shiver themselves down to warmth again.
Spawned by poverty, their existence rendered an ignoble curse by the society,
Humble, pure hearted yet labelled street urchins by the people around;
Shouted at, beaten off, and always dispersed, they remain trapped in the vicious cycle of labour.\
The innocent children, subdued by the deprecable surroundings imposed upon,
Driven to the madness of the rusted nose candies, or, had lost paths in the abhorrent forbidding world.
Unfortunate enough, yet wandering alone, eyes appealing bright with pain, and in tempting hopes, their delicate hands fear in apprehension yet lined out timidly to beg.