I wear dust...

while others wear pride.

They walk in polished shoes.

I walk in worn out hope.

The streets have become my address,

my shelter,

my witness.

A place where forgotten hearts

learn to breathe through hunger.

Every morning,

I wake with empty hands.

No breakfast.

No promise.

No certainty.

Only another day...

asking for permission to survive.

I stretch out my palm.

Not because I love begging.

Not because I lack dignity.

But because hunger

has a language

only an empty stomach understands.

People pass.

Some look away.

Some hold their bags tighter.

Some throw words

sharper than stones.

As though poverty

is a crime.

As though I chose

to become invisible.

But listen...

I was not born a beggar.

I had dreams.

Dreams with wings.

Dreams with names.

Dreams that once laughed

before life taught them how to cry.

Then came the storms.

The kind that steals jobs.

Break homes.

Bury hope.

And leave a human being

standing...

with nothing

except tomorrow's uncertainty.

Still...

inside this weary chest,

hope refuses to die.

It whispers,

"One act of kindness

can change a lifetime."

So when you see me,

don't only see torn clothes.

See a father.

A mother.

A son.

A daughter.

A human being.

Do not measure a life by wealth.

Do not weigh a soul

with the scales of fortune.

Because money changes hands.

Power changes seats.

Fortunes rise.

Fortunes fall.

And tomorrow...

the hand giving today

may become

the hand begging tomorrow.

So if you pass a weary face,

offer kindness,

not disgrace.

For love

is worth far more than gold.

And sometimes...

the greatest charity

is not the coin in your hand,

but the compassion

in your heart.

*Mhiz Mira* 🫡🖋️