his armor, is a vest with holes,
shabby shorts with a mosaic formed
by the stains of oil,tea, ashes of cigarette and coal

a foul-smelling cloth graces his shoulders
that sweeps the dust from the tables,
coincidentally it comes from the very stars
to which he prays sometimes in night

independence day for him,
is about selling his freedom
and a dozen flags,
a free plate of jalebi,
from the nearby school,
is the only reminiscence of the place
he was once born in,

he lives inside creaking doors,
surrounded by walls
capable of collapsing
by tremors of continuous coughing,

paints his dreams
from the acrylic color box found in a dustbin,
with bare hands on newspapers,
and scrapped sheets

he has no regrets
he might never have,
for he has never seen
the sun of expectations
rise in the morning.

the moon of contentment,
is what he only cares for.