DISABILITY CHILD OF BURDEN Composed by Peris N. Wamutitu

Coming to this world,
a mystery to you,
though should have been,
a source of joy to the woman,
 who brought you to this world,
days went by, years went by,
what would have been joy turned to grief,
unable to trot here and there,
weak limbs, underdeveloped limbs, distorted limbs,
oh no! not what i bargained for.. she thought,
not a step would you make,
not even a skip or a hop,
disliked and set apart,
not wanted or accepted,
not loved, yet in constant need of it,
not cared for, not well fed,
hidden from the face of the world,
and viewed as a source of shame,
forbidden to play with siblings,
not even a single friend would you make,
but in spite of all these,
taken not as a liability but an asset,
leased out to one greedy hyena,
that feeds on and sucks the blood,
of such vulnerable children,
for his fulfillment and expansion,
to keep the jingle,
on his ever hungry pockets,
cast out onto the streets,
your disability an asset to your master,
as your pull yourself,
up and down the street,
helpless and hungry as you slide along,
the eyes of passers by taking pity on your plight,
and in their numbers,
filling your empty tin,
with valuable metal and pulp,
and your master, eagerly waiting for the cue,
standing aloof and at every full harvest,
lands at your side to collect and then quickly,
diffuse right back through the crowd,
to his hiding place to await,
another bumper harvest and,
at the end of the day,
with a full day's collection you are,
set aside and put away,
like a piece of garbage,
a pile of smelly sludge,
a chunk of bread and water,
is thrown at you to quell your rumbling tummy,
out in the rain, in the cold or in the scorching sun,
it is always the same, you have no leave,
child with disability, child with inability,
you lay to rest on the mat set down for you,
and a rag to cover your shivering body,
you rest yet, your mind is in unrest,
for you know that when the sun comes up,
it is yet another miserable day,
to be cast our at first cock crow,
to yet become an object, a would be human atm,
for one big bellied, inhuman and heartless soul,
to whom your well being is of no importance,
but to whom you are a shovel for scooping,
the very much sought after shilling,
without  much effort,
but just by placing you on the path,
of one passing by and one touched,
by your plight to fill your tin,
to fill your cup, to fill your plate,
once full, emptied at the speed of light,
and you once again you have to go through,
the cycle once again, till dawn, day after day,
child with disability, child with inabilyt,
self made atm , for the heartless and the wicked.