Ink Stained

It was just a matter of hours few, The skinny dark skin, Of dirt, of sweat, Would give up on the chill. Would give up on that thin shawl, Which he found in the rags, on one of his job days, Just before the commencement of this winter. That day was a lucky one. The days were lenient enough to make up for the nights, They provided healing to the wounds inflicted by the nights, With the divinity of the Sun, They brought smiles. But this night was nowhere close. Walking down the misty road, Walking in an odd pair of slippers, His bony chest had started to beat slowly, His shaky legs did not want to be a part of his journey, His dirty face had stopped feeling the chill. The chill showed no mercy. Alongwith the winds, the temperature dip to a sorrow low. His shawl was the only armor, His slippers the only guard. But there was something that kept him going. Far away in the fog, At a distance unpredictable by human eyes, There was a light. A yellow light of hope. Th