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.