\\ old poem \\
The night was cold, the night was dark,
The faint little stars were seldom seen;
The moon wasn't there, it had gone
To take a day's rest from its usual sheen.
Down on the hard cold street lay a boy,
Wrapped in a blanket shaggy and torn,
Ill with fever, hungry and cold,
Tired, exhausted, completely worn.
Freezing with cold and burning with hunger,
And boiling with the anger within,
He didn't give up, he was desperate,
To rise up again, he was keen.
No parents he had, no family at all
No abode, no home.
Had a job, did it in the mornings,
For his evenings, in the streets he would roam.
But he lost his job, because
Of nothing of his fault at all,
Furious with the world with himself he was
But determined not to fall.
He lost his job, lost everything he had,
Yet he lost nothing which belonged to him
His dreams were there, safe in his heart
His happiness, and memories so dim.
He had himself, his ambitions and aspirations,
Big he would be some day,
The whole world will hear of him,
He would make his way...
He heard the morning birds chirp
And retired from the thoughts he was so engrossed on,
The eastern sky was red all over,
The sun was peeping in the horizon.