Shaky hands reach out
Wrinkled hands, bony fingers;
All for a little bit of salvation
From the heat and the hunger.
Ribs sticking out of his chest
Lungs wheezing,
Struggling to breathe properly
Inhaling the unforgiving dust and smoke.
Sleeping on the cold concrete
With a frayed mat for warmth.
Worry lines permanently etched
Around his weary eyes
Realizing he can barely support
His family because of his sorry state.
But still he gets up and works;
Begging in alleyways,
Rummaging through trash bags,
Working in factories that tax him
Making him look gaunt;
All so that his loved ones
Can sleep with food in their tummies.
A poor man with a responsibility
Is the toughest soldier
This world can craft.