But Sometimes Clouds Obscure the Shooting Stars

dirty face,

torn shirt,

stained dress,

tired yawn,

hungry belly,

painful sores,

lonely tears,

bare feet,

school debts,

unkept hair,

grieving eyes

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child, you are so beautiful. but who is there to care for you? where are your parents, i want to scream, why don't they care? but the answer comes in three simple letters, whispered, as if saying them too loud might spread the curse.
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you buried your father. your mother grows sicker each day. and can an elderly grandmother really care for a child already marked positive? what hope can i offer you? your eyes betray the rapid aging of grief, and the future holds no promise for you. you, who should be playing in the mud and learning to tie your shoes, you pay the painful price for a father's sins (or perhaps, for the violence of an unknown stranger). and what does this world care for you? you will become another statistic, but how few will mourn at your passing. my heart aches for you, innocent one.
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and as i hold your hand, as i dry your tears, as i give you my food, as i pay your school fees, as i wash your face, as i mend your uniform, may you know that you are loved. may you know that there are some who still care for you. may you know that together we still cling to hope, wishing for the resurrection of your childhood. and every shooting star holds the possibility of a warm bed, a full belly, clean clothes, shoes, hair cuts, ointment, income, and more than all else, a cure.