All day,
Gliding through those streets of town,
A son of a crofter from a shanky ghetto, with a lacerated trouser and pair of shoes
- My only hope for sailing through campus -,
The difference between the street children and I is that I never sniff glue,
I go to church, and at least, at least I know home.
I gaze at the heavy machines as they pass by-side, all I grasp is ‘noise’
I see ‘big men’ in precise fabric
I see pearls, all in paints, taking selfies, eating snacks and drinking bottled water
What if they just sacrificed their ties, their paints or their water for us?
The hoots fade and as usual, I’m left, full of imaginations in a fake world.
I ponder of my life in a maze – no idea of what to fill my void at lunch,
No idea of what to drink at supper– here isn’t home – people eat money.
Why I am not living like this?
Should I hustle for glue, to get food?
Who out there is familiar with the pain of wound topped up with you own sweat?
Who out there recognizes about walking barefoot on road?
Who out there knows how the voice of the orphans fade everyday when they keep screaming for food all day?
Who can feel us? Who can help us?
When we are sick,
We cry for a medical practitioner, only to find
The one who is there treats us with curses
Since we can’t afford the medical bills.
Where is that government that cares for the needy?
Can we bargain for just education?
We don’t know. We ask just a single question that,
Can we let ourselves out of this poverty ?

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