He knows the paths of town and dark alleys alike,
He has seen as much as the night lights allowed,
He talks fast and is the leader of his pack,
There are no elections, but he didn't have to fight for it.
How many times has he saved them?
He tells them when to hunt and when not to,
Under his leadership, they still sleep in bags,
But always with a smile - a result of a full stomach.
He has not seen classroom black boards, but he has drawn on streets,
The same streets he dropped on from his mother's womb,
So he was told, and he was all she had in her small world,
She taught him ABC and he learnt beyond Z,
His mother always saw a great man in her son,
But her wet eyes could not provide tools that mould great men,
He was her consolation to the street's harsh stares,
And her prayer was to see her grown up son,
But it would never be, like all her prayers,
She was added to the number of steeet deaths.
He still carries a sack around, but no glue,
He knows how many have died from its luring grip,
And he wills to fight for a better him,
He lifts abandoned books from the bin and empties them in his mind,
His sack knows just how much knowledge that guy has,
With better clothes he would be called a great man,
But he stays shadowed by communal neglect of his kind,
Waiting for that light at the end of the tunnel,
He hopes it wont blind him when a train of opportunity passes,
And he that he won't be lying on the rail when it comes