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May 2018
Crouching on the mud dirt ground,
Is a child,
sweat, blood, tears,
Smudging its face,
Sunken eyes,
Sinking deeper into its face,
Of misery,
Of loss,
Of a crippled reality,
So harsh- unjust,
Its skin is paper thin,
Eyes like a nights sky,
But missing the stars,

Its 7,
Still pure,
Still innocent,
Unlike the world,
Who turned against it,
Before it even took its first breath,
It was this world that killed its parent's,
Siblings, Uncles and Aunts,
Killed its soul,
Cut out the love,
Pushed forward the pain,
This world seems to think its funny- a game,
But it's not,
It's not,
It's a boy,
And nobody ever learned his name.
I think that this poem is for all children in the word who are in terrible, life threating situations.
Written by
Tilda  14/Europe
(14/Europe)   
  410
   Salmabanu Hatim
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