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| Photo via Pixabay |
Not many rains from his first breath.
Now alone, lured into the streets
The hell that he calls home.
Begging and scavenging for daily food,
Already, has taken the blow of life.
Crime scenes are his playing grounds.
Only if they indeed had a thought,
Only if they had cared.
He could call them his sole pillars.
What wrong did I do to them?
If they really wanted me,
They couldn't put me in this oven alive.
Now alone, lured into the streets
The hell that he calls home.
Begging and scavenging for daily food,
Already, has taken the blow of life.
Crime scenes are his playing grounds.
Only if they indeed had a thought,
Only if they had cared.
He could call them his sole pillars.
What wrong did I do to them?
If they really wanted me,
They couldn't put me in this oven alive.
Poetry, Poem, Malawian Poem, Malawian Poetry, Malawian Poems, Poems