With stains of poverty embedded on her gown,
She stood glazing at me with shining eyes wearing a frown.
A wave of empathy reached the shore of my heart,
Seeing her reluctant wrinkled face I questioned God's art.
Does she deserve this fate that compels her for alms,
Or does she deserve knowledge on her tender palms?
And then I saw a heap of books with papers black and white,
Meant for the little ones to flood them with colours bright.
All day long she ran around till her feet would burn,
She traded them to quench her thirst with the other paper in return.
Into the shadows she slipped away counting every dime,
Nazia was that little girl's name and we shall meet some other time.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
With stains of poverty embedded on her gown,
She stood glazing at me with shining eyes wearing a frown.
A wave of empathy reached the shore of my heart,
Seeing her reluctant wrinkled face I questioned God's art.
Does she deserve this fate that compels her for alms,
Or does she deserve knowledge on her tender palms?
And then I saw a heap of books with papers black and white,
Meant for the little ones to flood them with colours bright.
All day long she ran around till her feet would burn,
She traded them to quench her thirst with the other paper in return.
Into the shadows she slipped away counting every dime,
Nazia was that little girl's name and we shall meet some other time.
