There was once a palace at the heart of a great nation. Its halls were wide enough for echoes to get lost, and its chandeliers sparkled with a thousand suns. One day, the ruler of the land stood in its grand entrance and declared, “I shall build a ballroom here, the finest the world has ever seen—at my own expense!” The nobles clapped and cheered, for they loved a place to dance, to toast, and to drink fine wine.
Beyond the palace gates, the streets were crowded with children whose eyes had grown dim, their colors faded like old photographs. I was once one of those children. My sisters and I sat on a couch stained with time and sorrow, hidden behind black garbage bags taped over broken windows. The adults around us tended only to their own hungers—hungers for smoke, for thrills, for escape. Days passed and no one asked, Are you alright? Do you need anything? Are you hungry?
Hunger became a wolf pacing inside my belly. It gnawed at obedience, swallowed fear, and left only desperation. I searched the kitchen—rice without pots, cupboards echoing with nothing. I was nine, and the world had no recipes for me. There was no internet to teach me, no kind hand to guide me.
So I did what I had never dared before. I ran down five flights of cracked stairs, dug my hands into the earth and ate dirt. It was bitter, but it was something. Then I ran to the bodega, stole chips, and ran back, my heart pounding like war drums. My sisters’ eyes lit up again at the first crunch. In that moment, we had nothing, and yet we had everything—because we were together, and we had stopped the wolf for one night.
I never ate dirt again. I never stole again. I learned to pack bags at the supermarket for change, to sit in afterschool programs for a plate of food, to go to church for bread and hope. I learned that you never judge the hungry—you feed them, because you don’t know the deserts they’ve crossed or the nights they’ve survived.
And yet, in this same land, there are men in golden towers who pass starving children on their way to banquets. They see the dim eyes but never stop to ask, Are you alright? Do you need anything? Are you hungry? They make plans for marble floors and crystal walls while someone’s child digs their hands into the dirt to quiet the howl inside.
The ballroom will gleam. Music will rise. Glasses will clink. But somewhere, a child will still be sitting on a couch with no color in their eyes, wondering if anyone will come.
And the truth is—God bless the child who has his own. Because the rulers will dance before they will feed him.
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