I was sitting in my class, having a great time with my folks.
I studied in grade one, my age was five years old.
The peon came to class and said, “The child needs to leave.”
The teacher packed my bag; it was something I couldn’t believe.

It was my father who came to pick me up; his face was dry and long.
I don’t remember much of it, but yes, I tagged along.
We sat inside a vehicle; it didn’t seem to be ours.
A few relatives were there too; we began travelling for hours.
We reached to a different city, some place appearing unknown.
And though I was a child, I knew that we weren’t alone.

I remember standing in front of the judge; he said, “The children will live with the mother.”
I shouted, “No! I’ll live with my papa, and I will live with no other.”

The judge sat there, seeing me cry—a small child wailing so much.
He asked me the question, “Why?” I gave no reason; there was no such.

The judge then made the ruling; one boy lives with father and the other with his mom.
It was then when I had no family—I was a child of a broken home.