PoetrySad Poems

Street Child

Here we are—
Eating crust, that
Fell from the sky,
Like a dog—
Eating crumbs from the master’s table.

With bare foot;
Thick and wide like
A paddle,
We propel
Ourselves on the street.

On us, a local kitchen rag
That once encountered
Fire; bruised.
Stuck to our flesh
Like a nail to wood.

The two clouds
On our face,
Are like lighted candles
Placed in a room.
They aren’t bright.

The echo of all these
Escaped through
Our mouth,
To notify the landmen
Of our blight.

But they got frightened,
Each time;
By the flames that proceed
Out of the furnace
In our eyes.

Hooligans, vagabonds,
They named us:
A chick that missed
Her way,
Wanting to survive.

Listen, as water turns sand to clay,
And clay turns to block;
You made us who you think we’re.
We’re not bad nor retarded,
We’re children born
To, and on the street.

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