It dawns with the worn-out, dusty cloth,
a companion more loyal than anything on earth.
Tuning out the voice of a growling stomach
gets easier with years of experience,
and this morning will be no different.
The sun wages war against the early morning cold,
soon to declare victory—
a victory they await each day
to warm their cold-stricken bones.
One lesson they've learned,
an unspoken, informal truth,
is to rely on no one.
Daily bread is their battle to win,
a giant task of survival,
too heavy for a child's hands,
a task that yields only a quarter of its weight
to their empty stomachs.
So they roam the streets,
they roam to survive.
The hands of strangers are their fields,
cruel fields that know no spring,
no summer, no winter—
sprouting cacti one day and mangoes the next.
They’ve learned that if you can’t inspire compassion,
you can shame it out of humans.
So they target couples,
begging as if the man is God.
Ego triumphs, and he gives—
to look good in front of his girlfriend.
They weave their little arms around older women,
pleading for bread,
playing the soft strings of a mother’s heart.
Usually, they relent,
the image of their own children flashing in their minds.
They run from angry men and shopkeepers,
who would rather offer slaps than bread.
They play games with death,
leaping over traffic bars,
saved only by screeching tires—
the equivalent of a day's worth of school and studies.
Café leftovers become a warm meal,
yet they never forget to skip and play chase in the scorching sun.
How could they?
It is still a child's heart that beats in their chest.
Dusk arrives with the worn-out, dusty cloth,
a companion more faithful than anything on earth.
They sleep, praying for slumber to take away the cold,
dreaming of fantasies—
buffets, beds, and pillows under four walls.
©umclite
U