He holds plastic bag in his hand, his eyes not flushed of dirt,
Little river flowing down his cave to the dried lips as if of thirst,
And shivering bare foot softly on torn chapel that he wore;
To the bottle firmly held in man's hand he stares.
In the park, stood this child looking at the bottle,
Barely moving as at the man on chair he goggles.
Slipping his tiny hand into his pocket, clutching it-
Few coins in it, "three bottles for one coin." He counts.
Under the hot sun waited for long, the poor child,
Without shades of tree and chill of cold wind.
Beads of sweats streaming down his forehead;
Lifted his hand to rub, while firmly