Checkmate!

The outstretched thin arm

Held out, not a grimy begging bowl for alms.

But the child hardly eight or nine

With eyes bereft of a twinkle or a shine,

Clenched a stack of long ball pen;

Each just for Rupees ten.

On his famished body

A film of dust formed the second skin

And he appeared unfamiliar to a grin.

The sight of the battered child,

Like a flower withering in the wild

Screamed irony.

He held a pen but knew not how to write

Wielded a weapon, yet was oblivious of its might.

Heroic it would be if he picked one from the stack

To re write his despondent destiny and fate

And exclaim victoriously

Checkmate!