He’s a child with a grown man’s heart.
Fun for him is earning money
for food for the stomach is much more important
than the fun of the playgrounds.
He’s going to work, not to school.
He’s bringing with him not books, but a broom
taller than him, and maybe heavier than he weighs,
he drags it with all his weight
along the busy, car-filled streets.
At night, he writes what letters he knows
enough to spell out his precious gift – a name.
He reads slowly the words in the fliers
blindly following his gut, for he is deprived of a teacher.
When the night grows old, he tucks himself on his bed
lays an old pillow he found on the dumpster and his patched blanket.
That night he sleeps in exhaustion not excitement,
for tomorrow is yet another day
to earn a penny for a living.
Yet, amidst the dirt where he lies.
The young child still shines the brightest.
In his dirt-laden world, he still finds hope,
a small place where his dreams grow.
One day, out in the fields he can run like others.
Enjoy the hot sun of summer.
In spring, he will find time to adore the flowers.
When autumn comes, he can start a fire
to keep him warm for the coming winter.
geologistplume 