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A child sits on a dirty floor  The wind howls through the door  This is where the child calls home  On the street where the child can roam  Her estate is a dangerous place
  The paper crinkled between my fingers. The lost valuable trash that had fluttered up at me flapped in the crisp, biting breeze.   The dull, familiar color of green is what I recognized first.
Worn eyes stare gently at my shy privilege  
That homeless girl That could have been me. She seems trapped in poverty,  But to me she seems free.   At a young age She leared to grow up How to be a leader  Instead of making a fuss.
They’re ungrateful; they got themselves in that position; they’re just being lazy,One man I served at a soup kitchen even said-“you spend too much time helping us; you will become one of us”.
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