Sunken cheeks, hollow hazel eyes,
sunburnt forehead with a bony pointed chin,
concave stomach, hunger clenching the insides-
all evidences of horror that lies within.
His hair is greasy, his face somewhat blank,
expertly disguising the ripe age of ten;
the only witness of the dreams that sank
are his callused hands that still ache for a pen.

He stands holding a newspaper at times,
absorbing the words- trying to drink
and comprehend the sense behind the lines
that appear to him as abstract blots of ink.
He screams inside but does not react,
concealing his protest with a mask of bluff,
slowly learning to accept the fact-
not everyone is fortunate enough.

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