On a wintery cold afternoon,
I was just driving in my lane,
When I witnessed a little boy,
Knocking the window pane.
I scrolled down my window,
To see the little boy,
Dressed in a shabby manner,
Just like an old toy.
The dirt on his face,
And cloths muddled up with dust,
Showcasing his worse conditions,
And dreams filled with rust.
The hands full of dirt,
Were selling the tissues to clean,
The irony that persists,
And is continued to be seen.
The tangled hair that falls,
Like a mess on his head,
Only for twenty rupees madam,
In an alarming voice he said.
With actually like every other day,
I was about to turn around,
Focus on my way to office,
Till our eyes met in a stound.
His eyes had lost hope,
To rise up from his plight,
The stomach that slept with hunger,
Poverty has not treated him right.
There was something illumining I felt,
In the way of this lad,
I was compelled to give him a reaction,
That is not cruel or either bad.
I purchased the packet of tissue,
And paid him the number,
With a smile I pated him,
And shown him a gesture so tender.
A poor soul was happy,
For the emotions he felt by,
The lost hope has revived,
He took a peaceful sigh.
I was confused about his happiness,
After all, I had just bought a packet from his pile,
There was no reason to be so happy,
Thus, I enquired the reason for his wide smile.
The innocence that surrounds,
Made him smile and say,
‘It’s not about the money miss,
But someone smiled at me today!’