The Little Hands That Built Tomorrow

By Bhoomika S N

He should’ve been chasing chalk dust in the air,

but he chases bricks instead — barefoot and thin.

The morning bell rings somewhere he can’t go,

its echo lost beneath a factory din.

His palms, once meant for crayons and clay,

now memorize the weight of stone.

Each blister blooms like an unwanted medal,

each sigh sounds older than his bones.

When asked his name, he points to a number -

painted on his hand in fading blue.

He dreams of rain, not wages;

of a schoolyard sky he never knew.

But one day, a seed of kindness falls -

a stranger’s book left by his feet.

He opens it, and for the first time,

his hands build letters, not concrete.

By Bhoomika S N