I saw you on the street. Our eyes did not meet. The pavement was cold, and yet you lay still. I can’t help but wonder what you do when it rains. Do you have the warmth you need? If I were a little child living on the street, I would only feel defeat. There is barely any change in your tiny hands. How will you eat? It takes all my will not to run over and take you far away—someplace safe. Your face is pale, but the tear stains are clear as day. If I could, I would brush your messy hair and craft you a smile with the love that would bleed out of my very fingertips. I’d find the heaviness that lies in your heart and heal the strings that tug at you so. I wish to give you a voice. If we chose to open our eyes to see, our hearts to love, and our minds to set free, our children would not have to sleep cold. Our children would have homes. I wouldn’t have to meet reflections so sweet or whisper once more: “I saw you on the street.”
Lashvini V.G