Their craving eyes watch hungrily
As food goes down the drain,
Their half-torn, old and dirty clothes
Are drenched by pouring rain.

They never have a resting place,
Or something close to 'home'.
They have no proper livelihood -
On worn-out streets they roam.

People think they aren't of use,
Some even call them 'unwanted'.
Still, there are some who will look past that,
And try to help them, undaunted.

I hope, that one day, all this ends -
That 'injustice' isn't a word,
And I know inside, my wish will come true..
The 'poor' will change the world.