I am the little girl across the street, tanned skin and in the torn blue frock,
With dirty nails and callused hands, sight which makes you run amok.
I am the despicable countenance leaking dirt in the rain,
Apathy behind shades and windows save the pain.
I am the stench, from which you wriggle your nose in disdain,
But cherish the view and award bioscopes of the same.
I am the child of poverty, with tears reeking of an unfulfilled wish,
I am the child with stretched and lifeless hands, which you avoid in fear of a blemish.
I am your reality; I am part of you as you are of me,
I think of you and admire you, do you ever ponder over me?
