As a tear rolls down the child's face,
It's whole is of a weak,
Now his life has no place,
He's put upon the street.
Where he once lived in large comfort,
Has been taken and in exchange,
He has nothing but a crisp brown box,
To in a corner arrange.
And as he lays down for the night,
The cold creeps through his bones,
His only warmth, a small fire light,
As he lays upon the stones.
But when the child falls asleep,
He challenges winter's core,
He was too cold and weak,
And now does live no more.
(c) Sarah Louise Winch, October 1995