Poem: Lost and Find

One two three four five six seven days
Where can he rest and find his faith?
Every time he leans and bents and bows
Praying nothing but picking all the trash

He wears the mask and worships the crowd
The cans you throw are what he finds
The piles of papers are what he counts
The trash you discard are what he can buy

You drop
He finds
Finally what did he get?
Only one two three four five six seven cents

Remarks:
You just couldn’t think of how many “mudlark” you can see in this prosperous city, Hong Kong. Here was one scenario I came across few days before in my living place, Chai Wan.