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ALMS AND THE MAN A little coy, a little shy The child of time, this bonny boy With eyes brown and lips red A mock of jet black crowning his forehead Innocence writ over his demeanor And you would spot him whenever ….. You approached the crossing of Outram Street His clothes had stitches like wounds scarred And his naked feet were blistered hard For the luxury of shoes were forever barred His skin was sooty and gait impaired A few measly pennies a day was all he fared You wouldn’t put his age anywhere beyond ten Yet he had to beg for (and from) his brethren An ailing, widowed mother and a sister not four Destiny had assailed him a mocking blow We talk of terrorism and humanitarian aid (in the same breath) I wonder how these children unto beggars are made With their childhood raped on the altar of humanity And poetry coming forth on such nothing but self-deceiving vanity Is such destitution fodder for our intellectual bemusement Or is it with words that we strive to give vent To shame and pain and anguish and sorrow To make poetry a recreational tool for our tomorrow A little coy, a trifle shy The child of time, this bonny boy The hand that rocked his cradle now too weak Even the superpowers that be far too meek For in the journey of life the destination lies within But can we his lost childhood ever again begin Or would it be too easy if in poetry the answer lay therein. ~Vikram C~
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