Alms not just for a balm

A poem about how a 12 year old boy tried to survive after some bandits attacked and killed his parents while they were on their farm. He was lucky to have escaped but with a big infected wound on his

He has a big festered wound on his right arm,
He feared it might be hiding thousands of unseen germs,
It is after his parents deaths, he knew he had lost his only true gems,
He now has to wake up early, to beg passers-by for alms.

Each of the coins thrown into his palms and pan, he holds firm,
'Cos apart from his wound, hunger would also cause him harm,
That's how he was able to eat and dress the wound with a soothing balm,
That's how he'd lived, since his parents were killed by bandits on their farms

The death of his parent no longer cause him any qualm,
He was the only survivor 'cos during the attack he stayed calm,
Only that he now found emotive love existing around him to be a scam.
He noticed that within a month after, he has lost several weights in grams.

He was now just twelve, future appeared ahead of him as a total sham,
His purse was ever lean 'cos most people have stinginess on their palms,
Anguish started to eat a greater part of his heart despite reciting several psalms,
Hunger and his infected wound are now taking him closer to heaven on an elevated ramp.

But will death make him take his final nap?
Since the face of compassion he sought has dried the oil of mercy in his lamp,
He looked for help but he found weak ones near his camp.
Only that he found it too early to wear this untimely cap.