The child in the street corner
Is no different from yours
The man shivering in the hut
Is no different from you
Their tummies may touch their spine
Their faces may be sunken
Your belly may be filled with wine
You may be a lord of a dozen
They can no doubt be called economically poor
You are no doubt financially rich
Your mansion may be full of treasure
Your living could be nothing but a pleasure
But,
All these riches are what you have
And not what you are
And make you no different from what they are
As their dry lips can also smile
Just the way you do
Their blood is still the colour red
The same colour when you bleed
unless your blood is blue.
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