Under the Dark Sky of Dhaka

Beneath the iron sky, the streets echo with empty footsteps—
A hundred hearts beat, unheard, beneath the scornful gaze of the night.

The streets are rivers of hunger—trembling bodies with no refuge.
Footprints erased by rain, as the city moves on without a glance.
A child’s hand reaches out, begging for light—
but the lamps remain cold, distant, burning only for the rich.

Broken shoes, cracked soles like promises too broken to fix,
and in their eyes, the sun has no meaning—its warmth a distant myth.
Faces pressed to the ground, searching for food in the dirt,
lips cracked from hunger, but never from a kiss.

A hundred voices, lost in silence, speak in the language of pain,
drowning in the noise of distant cars, their tears unmarked by time.
In the alleys, whispers of dreams die before they are even born,
and the night eats its own, leaving no room for a future.

Hands clasped together in prayer—but there is no one to hear,
no god in sight, just the hum of steel, the cruelty of concrete.
Their hearts are beaten by the rhythm of cold winds—
the cruel song of survival, sung by every child who sleeps on the street.

The moon casts a shadow of hunger on their faces,
eyes wide open, but the world refuses to see.
Tattered rags cling to their skin, but there is no warmth in them.
The city’s noise drowns their cries, the echoes fading into the dust.

In the emptiness, their dreams are ghosts,
but in their eyes, hope is stubborn, still fighting to be alive.
A mother’s love abandoned, but their hearts know no defeat,
as they search for safety in every forgotten corner.

But still they walk, barefoot on the path of nothing,
eyes like mirrors, reflecting the cruelty they endure.
And when the world turns away, they remain—
silent warriors, forgotten by those who cannot see.