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.