A diamond in the rough

This is about a child I used to see on my way to Fergusson each morning. Theres something about that look in his eye..it will forever haunt me......

Poverty's own child,
Stared me in the face,
He took a shuddering gasp,
And beagn to wail.

His life song it seemed,
So hanuting , so chilling,
Yet child-like he remains,
Still with hope of a new day.

No place to call home,
No life to call his own,
No one;
No where.

He is poverty's own,
Ruined and tattered,
Begging with the affluent,
For dignity and peace.

A dictator rules his day,
Hunger mars his night,
Intoxicating emptiness:
And dreams die a natural death.

A ray of hope,
Alight in each person.
But they pass him by-
And he waits again.

His despair is mounting;
His rage deepens,
Life loses meaning,
Should crime seduce him ?

Wretched life,
Teases him on-
Snarled abuses,
His only music.

He amuses himself,
Talks to his begging bowl,
Whistles a rusty tune,
Plays with the dust.

Body covered in sores,
Injuries paint his skin,
Some aquired; others inflicted-
How long before his soul dies ?

No dignity-
No company-
No space to grow,
No air to breathe.

All that he can call his own-
Is Misery.
- shilpa iyer