In the realm of shadows, where dreams are stripped,
Resides the rag picker children, their spirits eclipsed.
They tread upon a path strewn with debris,
Collecting broken fragments, a desperate plea.

Each step they take, like wading through a storm,
Seeking treasure in waste, their bodies worn.
Their hands, calloused and bruised, bear the weight,
Of a world that discards, sealing their fate.

Their lives, like discarded shards upon the ground,
Fragmented hopes lost, without a sound.
Their dreams, like fragile petals on the breeze,
Wither in the shadows, silenced by unease.

They are the warriors, born from the refuse,
Toiling in the darkness, facing abuse.
The...