In the sack he flicked the can,
Quick as a flash and off he ran.
Then another ditch diving right in,
Rummaging through another’s bin.
Hands so small; stained and black,
Tearing open that grubby old sack.
With enquiring mind and hawkish sight,
He finds trinkets and treasure shining bright.
He kept on digging that boy of seven,
As if it was his chosen heaven.
But his only option to earn a crust,
Live his life from the Afghan dust.
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