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 world turns a blind eye to their plight,
Their voices unheard, hidden from sight.

Like forgotten stars, they strive to ignite,
A flame of change, breaking the cycle's might.
They yearn for a life beyond waste's cruel embrace,
A chance to soar above, finding their place.

But the chains of inequality hold them tight,
Like weights upon their souls, blocking their flight.
They bear the scars of a society's divide,
Where prejudice and injustice coincide.

Let us be the compass, guiding their way,
Removing the obstacles that lead them astray.
Let us be the shelter from life's bitter rain,
Nurturing their dreams, relieving their pain.

For in their struggles lie lessons profound,
Strength and resilience that astound.
Let us transform their sorrows into light,
And paint their world with colors bright.

For they are not mere debris in life's grand scheme,
But potential blossoms, awaiting their gleam.
Let us empower them to rise above,
To build a future where they're seen and loved.
© Avinash David