He remained silent and his silence spoke.
Without words,  the story bespoke.
There was a fight in his breath , a soul of a fighter.
Another strain and his fist got tighter.
Facing the enemy ,living with in.
Morbid and morbid , beating the sin.
Times & times, he was dead.
Again & again , he rose from the very death bed.
Carved the hope from with in despair.
Beating the strain and no spare.
He is the human fighting for bread.
He is alive but living among dead.
He shares the same world where vanity live .
He has no food , which is care to few.
He is the fighter , fighting for life.
To be a human or a fighter, that's his strife*.