Hunting for rice

In a part of the world,
In a quiet and small place,
Sits a young boy,
With a sorrowful face.

His clothes are just rags,
His arms are like twigs,
His hands are all torn,
From the earth that he digs.

He's hunting for rice
That is hidden beneath
The hardening earth,
Now baked in the heat.

They got there too late.
The food trucks had been.
The people had trampled
Bags of rice they had seen.

A beam of delight
Escapes from his lips,
As he gathers the rice
In a bag by his hips.

He turns towards his mother
And shows her his prize,
Waiting for praise that
He was sure would arise.

There is no response
From his mother at all,
As she lays there so quiet,
Curled up in a ball.

Her eyes are glazed over,
Her skin cold to touch,
And for the young boy
Its now all too much.

He once had a father,
And a sister as well,
But they were both lost,
In this blistering hell.

And now he's alone
With no-one to hold.
No place to call home,
What tale will unfold.

Let us hope that he's found
And that mercy is shown
And that someone will call him
A son in their home.

www.freerice.com