The Cry of a Poor Child

by Mirha Saleem


There he sat crouched in a corner, so still,

his name was Jimmy Brown Bill,

his eyes were swollen and full of tears,

nothing could wash away his terrible fears,

he couldn’t speak but in his heart he said:

oh God don’t I have the right to be cared for and fed,

am I not equal, don’t I stand a chance,

why don’t people think of me but only glance?

They look at me as if I am a pile of dirt,

the way they look at me makes me hurt,

oh someone please do something,

all I can do is watch the birds sing,

oh God why didn’t you make me a bird,

or maybe a sheep in a cattle or herd,

at least I would be free and same as the rest,

no one would look at me in hatred or detest,

when I see children laughing and playing,

beautiful houses in which they are staying,

I somehow feel different as if I’m a slave,

never to have the thing for which I crave,

ain’t I made same as the others?

Aren’t we all sisters and brothers?

Is this the way my life has to be,

watching the others laugh at me,

oh God I have waited patiently now please see, in glee,

listen to the cry of a poor child like me.