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The street child is the story of a florist

deluarhossain336@gmail.com

The street child is the story of a florist

The boy had no dreams. I know, maybe there was! But I never saw the light of dreams in his eyes. Every moment I look at the thin and black boy, I see only some suffering, drowning in hunger and deprivation. Whose appearance was never sad, there was a smile.

I have not been in Dhaka for a long time, I have studied abroad. Now I am working in Dhaka. To return to my own country. That is who I am. On the bus, on the train, in the car or on the rickshaw, it’s my habit to stare. I keep seeing, people, their work, plants… everything, everything. I drive to the office every day. 8.30 am I get stuck on a signal on a regular basis. Now it has become a habit to stop there occasionally for fifteen minutes, sometimes…

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