He sits with a singular meal
broken and in tears
Calls for his mum and dad
for they are his only dears
With barely a single cloth
he faces the harsh winter
keeps himself warm with the fire he built
with those soft, tiny little hands
Hands that long to open the books
he sells sitting on the street
hoping he could decipher
what that ink on paper means
He walks with a blurry vision
no hand to guide him through
for his sight can become better
if those clear lenses reach him somehow
He sleeps on the concrete floor
and loses himself in a dream world
of the royals and the riches
he never can be.
The father works away his life
to support his children and wife
only thinks about the food on their plates
knowing, that this is not enough
Srish. xx
