The little newborn lies so fragile, hardly days old, his tiny body curled up as if still longing for the safety of the womb. His skin is delicate, almost translucent, showing the faint blue of veins beneath. Every breath he takes is shallow, his chest rising and falling with a trembling rhythm, as though even the act of breathing is a heavy task for such a small, poor life.
He is wrapped in nothing more than a thin piece of cloth, worn and frayed, offering little warmth against the chill around him. His face is pale, with faint redness along his cheeks where the cold bites against soft skin. His lips quiver slightly, and sometimes he lets out a faint cry—weak, almost voiceless—as if he has no strength left to demand comfort.
This newborn carries the look of poverty and struggle from the very beginning. There is no cradle to rock him gently, no warm blanket to shield him, no gentle lullaby sung to soothe his fears. Instead, he rests on a rough surface, the world already harsh and unkind, yet expecting him to endure. His small hands curl weakly, the fingers too frail to hold onto anything tightly. His eyes flicker open only for a moment, cloudy and searching, as if seeking love and warmth that are nowhere near.
The sight of him brings a heavy ache to the heart. A newborn should be surrounded by tenderness, protected by loving arms, and embraced with hope. But this poor little one begins his journey with almost nothing—no comfort, no plenty, only survival. Every sound he makes, every breath he struggles to take, is a reminder of how cruel life can be for the most innocent.
Yet even in his weakness, there is a fragile strength. His tiny heartbeat continues, soft but steady, fighting quietly for a chance to live. Though he is hardly newborn and already so poor, he carries the silent plea of all children who begin with nothing: the need for care, for love, for someone to see his worth and give him the warmth he has been denied.
