Poor

Dirt cover my body, the amount of food I eat cover my hand,

The little cloth I have falls off my stick of a body

It all I know this life of poverty

I am one of a child of nine siblings

When I sleep at night in my little bed of hay.

I dream of far off place, of a life greater then my own life now.

Even thought we all work in the field day and night,

we go to bed hungry and thirsty for food.

When I see the children go to school

my eyes are hungry for a change to learn to read and write.

In the western country they all call us poor.

By Davia Richards

Posted in Poetry

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