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.