A child on the shoulders of his father,
Watched the other kids with their bags to school,
Playing with their toys by the pool,
Shed tears and wished to be one of them,
The father went from man to man, street to street,
Signaling cars, gentility, with open hands,
Torn clothes, dirty face he stands,
Received nothing but ridiculing mass,
Who's responsible if his father is not rich?
The son, the father, we or democracy?
God, his angels, nature, or prophecy?
His eyes bleeding, his father's pleading,
Who will answer this little child's question?
Waiting am I for any suggestion.
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Comments about this poem (New World by Jahan zaib )
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