An Orphanage of Names
(Based on a plea for the street children of Sri Lanka)

Beneath the gold of temple spires, Below the gaze of sapphire skies, Where tourists walk with idle dreams, A different Sri Lanka gleams With sorrow’s light. A hundred—no, The numbers blur, but still they grow— Some fifteen thousand, spirits thin, Or thirty thousand, ghosts of sin That isn't theirs. The count is blurred, A statistic, a whispered word. But I, I see. I see the face In every crowded, hurried place.

They are the children of the dust, Whose only currency is trust That’s broken daily. Parentless, Not by decease, but carelessness. A mother gone, a father’s rage, They turn the concrete curb their stage, Their bed, their school, their battleground, Where childhood’s music isn't found. They are the "uneducated," yes, But scholars of a deep distress. They read the language of the street, The hardened face, the hurried feet. They know the calculus of pain, Of hunger, heat, and driving rain. And though they bear no book or slate, They know the heavy hand of fate. They have a right, as you and I, To see the sun in their own sky, To dream a dream that isn't cold, To live a story to be told.

And then, the news. The final break. A pain no heart should have to take. The words, a whisper, then a scream: The end of one small, fragile dream. “A street child… beaten… found too late.” A footnote to the nation’s fate. A body, small, returned to dust, A casualty of broken trust. A child. A child. And with that blow, A part of me refused to go Back to the silence, to the numb, To waiting for a help that won't come. This agony, this borrowed grief, It crystallised into belief. My tolerance for sitting by Evaporated with his cry. I cannot bear this passive role, This tragedy has claimed my soul.

So I will build. I have a plan. It starts with one, a single man (Or woman, heart, it matters not) Who sees the sickness and the rot And dares to plant a seed of grace In this forgotten, haunted place. I call it "home," an "orphanage," A brand-new, bright, unwritten page. A place for fifty, or just five, A room to prove they are alive. A roof to stop the endless rain, A door to keep the wolves of pain Outside. A bed. A simple meal. A hand to touch, to prove what’s real. A place for small hands to unclench, To leave the gutter and the stench. A place to learn, to hold a pen, To learn to be a child again.

The cost is drawn in numbers stark: Sixty thousand dollars. A park, A luxury car, a moment's whim For some. For me, a future grim With lack. My wallet holds but air, A handful of coins, and a prayer. I stand alone, a single spark, A trembling voice against the dark. Just one. Just me. I have no fund, No wealthy patron, second-guessed, No committee, no grand design Approved by boards. The dream is mine. And it is terrifying, true, To know what I am called to do With empty hands and burning heart. But every journey has to start.

So this, my poem, is my plea, A message cast into the sea Of human kindness. Will you hear? Will you subdue the passing fear That it’s too big, the cost too high? Will you, like me, refuse to pass by? I do not ask you for the world, But just one brick, one blanket furled, One dollar, or one word of hope To help me climb this crushing slope. The life that ended on the stone— He proves we cannot wait, alone. Help me to build the walls. Help me To build a place where they are free. And in this house, this future bright, We’ll light a fire against the night. And every child who finds that door Will know they are not "less," but "more." They'll have a name. They’ll have a choice. And I, I will have used my voice.

— A poem for the vow you made.