The street children

The Street Children

He has no idea about life,
Which is either filled luxury,
Or with sorrows fallen in the street,
He has no living house.
Always pitiful to see other boys,
Playing and laughing in the field,
Always remorse and dilapidated,
With torn shirt and dirty glamour,
As if blessed naturally to eat and drink,
The nature cares them when lies,
Underneath the big banyan tree.
Once a snake bit his leg,
A stream of blood was yelling out,
There is none to see his well beings,
Still deathbed bed in the hole,
of the snake where he has no shades.
In the peaceful solitary house of a little comfort.
In the shapes to die hereinafter,
For sole loneliness and die,
In the wake of  the street children,
None in the field or in the room,
Where a drop of water never touches,
Even in the gloomy look,
Through walking in the soul of dead,
Once seen in the great dustbin,
From where never seen again on the street.

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