When Coins Aren’t Enough

He stands
by the gate.

Same spot.
Every day.

Worn shoes.
Cracked hands.

A bag
half empty.

Inside?
Tools.

Old ones.
Rusty ones.

He doesn’t beg.
He waits.

For a knock.
A job.

“Fix my pipe.”
“Carry this load.”

Anything.
To earn.

He smiles
at strangers.

They pass
too fast.

No one sees
the war inside.

His shirt
is torn.

His pride
not yet.

He eats
when coins arrive.

If not?
He doesn’t.

But he never
steals.

Never asks.
Just hopes.

At night,
he talks to stars.

“Let me
wake again.”

Morning comes.
No miracle.

Just light.
And footsteps.

He walks
again.

Same road.
Same pain.

But still,
he walks.

Because someone
must survive.

At home—
a child waits.

Small feet.
Big eyes.

“Did you bring
anything, Baba?”

He nods.
Even when empty.

Lies
to protect.

Smiles
to cover pain.

One day,
a stranger stops.

“Do you fix roofs?”
“Yes, sir.”

He runs.
Faster than hunger.

Works with blood.
Not sweat.

By night,
he earns.

Two notes.
Not much.

But to him
everything.

He buys rice.
Oil.

One candy.
For his child.

That night,
he doesn’t cry.

He sleeps.
Full heart.

Empty stomach
but full heart.

Because tomorrow,
he’ll try again.

And again.
And again.

Until his story
is no longer

When coins
aren’t enough.

But someday,
“We finally made it.”