An Orphan at Footpath


Torn clothes,
patched heart,
Barbed eyes
and frenetic life
Lived with agony.
Sewn by mockery.
Has got eyes but
couldn’t figured out
Who really is he?
Where does he belong?
Only the wind that blows
Knows his roots.
Footpath – his sweet home,
No homesickness.
Begging – his profession,
No more greed of more pennies.
Morning – a curse to him,
Night – an uncertainty.
he has no one to call his own,
He lives in merriment,
He lives in peace and
He believes,
If people changes,
one thing will never change
And that is his sweet home “Footpath”..

Photo: flickriver


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