The little arms begged for the least in my wallet

Uncombed, untidy hair

Battered, frail body

Hunger playing its fiddle on his nerves

I met him on the streets

On the footpaths, in the signals

He was at the bus stands, railway stations

Even at temples, masjids, churches

He crawled, he limped

Sometimes without his eyes, arms, legs

He had no mother to love

No father to care

No siblings to play & have fun

He had no school to go

No events to remember

No birthdays to celebrate

He slept under an open sky

On a pricking bed

In that shivering cold

He looked at those stars everyday

They always looked the same, so far & so lost

Sometimes I wonder, I ask myself

Who exactly made him an orphan?

Is it the god himself?

Is it our failed governments?

Is it his so called family?

Or is it simply just you and me!

By choosing to just simply pass by him every day?

By just caring to ignore?

Or by just choosing to search for the least in the wallet?