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?