The Young Boy
His tired feet stopped by the road as he halted to rest his small hungry self.
The young but chapped hands held a bag filled with small useable items from the waste bin which would probably contain his ‘dinner’ for the day too.
His icy glare had become customary – a curtain over the gleeful innocence of childhood that was lost somewhere. I wonder what the habitual scorn signifies- is it contempt on himself for somehow managing to survive everyday without a purpose for life.
School and a warm home were not even dreams anymore; they were part of another world- one he could never set his step in. He continued his zombie-like tread and his shadow faded in the moonlight as he entered the maze of gloomy slums.
Contributing Writer: Malati Karthikeyan
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