Here lives a lone guy,
Said as,
Unpolished,unkempt.
He walks and runs,
On the roads and streets.
Forming a circle around,
Poor flower seller mother,
With all spirits.
Missing father’s roof,
and a brother’s shoulder,
– Almost forever.
His friends left,
And fled away, on his fate,
Some blaming,
Some patting sympathy,
And some smiling in corners.
None to accompany.
Selling newspapers,
Thousands of words intact,
But he never understood,
Those lines written there.
Everyday,
He asks – why?
Unanswered forever !
He keeps looking,
For some buyer,
Selling those words,
In the lifeless papers.
For few coins,
If not, then,
Just few words from heart,
Walks here,
To sell papers,
Destiny’s poor child.