He sits near the market hoping for some coins in his bowl, he's only eight an orphan. People pass him by he's invisible to the eye. He bathes in the Ganges, and makes a prayer for his future, that's unknown, a lady gives him bread, and a word of care, and such kindness for him very rare.
Michael Cochrane ©
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem