The Poor Boy

These privileged kids,

living in developed countries,

with abundant money spent on them,

to cultivate hobbies,

to develop skills,

taken to places of enrichment,

thrown birthday parties,

still carry a pout on their faces,

no gratitude.

They need to pause,

and know the fate,

of another child of their age.

A poor widow’s son,

no father, many younger siblings.

Frail mother worked as house help,

just to keep food on the plate.

So, the boy went out to earn,

tended to cattle in pasture,

in torn clothes, year-round.

no schooling.

He learned from somewhere,

fishing industry gives more,

free meals too.

For better pay,

he set off,

without awareness of danger.

He sent money home a few times,

feeling pride.

No one to check on him,

father is gone,

mother overwhelmed,

overworked, feeding the brood.

One day, news came,

he is dead,

the mother never even saw his body.

It could have been a mosquito-borne fever,

or some a human crime,

a little boy, vulnerable,

in unknown place, among strangers

A life snatched away,

for no fault of his own,

just because he was poor.

So, I look at rich kids,

and feel triggered.

They need to learn gratitude.

They need to drop that,

constant dissatisfaction.

They are not “more deserving.”

They are just born lucky.