The dream of a streetchild

The women who were

well dressed in fine garments

flocked by the lake for a unknown reason

Looked at me and produced sympathetic smiles

One of them handed a packet of fried rice

I hold it looking at the empty sky

over the mountain far far away

I heard they were whispering

I saw by a just glance,

a surfing puzzle on their faces

I wanted to shout, yell or cry

though I became silent,
silent like a graveyard

instead of been pry
I wanted to say, 

Why don’t you think?

I don’t want your fried rice

I don’t want your sympathy.

Just only what I want is

to be like you: 
First, education to move on upward

Then, fine dresses, social status, 

a house to call home

a place where to be a family

Why can’t stop my feet

walking alone along the street

in the holy city?

Surely, I don’t want your sympathy

Just give me a chance to be like you!