THE ORPHAN

Having no protection
For my young skin
From the fierce cold
And the army
Of well equipped mosquitoes
Giving a guard of honour
And sucking my blood.

In the kitchen,
I sleep.
You eat on the table
While I sit
On the stinking floor
Warmed up by cold.
For am not your child.

Sometimes,
I feed on the aroma
Of the delicacies
That you eat.
Simply because,
Am not your child.
In house chores,
I become your donkey.
From morning
To evening
Am in charge of the chores.

If I want to study
You postpone it
But when my 'brothers' want to
You release them.
One day,
I believe and hope
God would lift the lowly.

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