Standing at the edge of the road on a busy day,
Children became happy when they saw him in their way;
‘He sold balloons dearer than others’ said all,
‘He is less than eight’ was all that I could say.
Draped in rags, dirt filled in his hair,
He was a kid, but submerged in despair,
Looking at his pitiful eyes, I wondered;
Will he ever be out of this wear and tear?
Looking at all the colourful balloons he got to sell,
He too needed one to play, his eyes could tell,
How would he play when he had to sell it;
As this earning was his only means to dwell.
Killing his childhood to live another day,
Smothering happiness’ every hopeful ray,
Looking at the world with a drought in his eyes;
Disappeared the balloon seller in his dusty way.
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