Born on the edge of a world that looks away,
A child of dust, of caste, of yesterday.
No cradle, no lullaby, just the sound
Of the street’s cold silence all around.
He begs with hands too small for pain,
Under a sun that scorches like shame.
Winters bite through paper-thin skin,
Yet he smiles when he finds warmth within.
No shoes, no coat, no plate to fill—
But he offers crumbs with a heart of will.
Helping hands, though none help him,
A soul that shines when all seems dim.
He gazes at stars with wonder wide,
Dreams of school with tears he hides.
He wants a pencil, a desk, a name,
Not just to live, but to play the same.
Yet fate wrote hunger into his bones,
And carved his story out of stones.
Still—he dares. He dreams. He tries,
With burning hope behind tired eyes.
For this is the life he didn’t choose,
A war he fights, a life to prove.
That even a child from the dust and street
Can rise with fire in his blistered feet.
One day, he says, they’ll know his name.
Not for where he started,
But how he came.
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