It was a day of great rains and storms,
When we were born in our fragile forms.
It was a very uncelebrated incident,
The birth of three curs in a roadside vent.
Nobody was present to care for us,
As we sat there, without any fuss,
The rainwater made it difficult there,
Our place just felt like some nightmare.

Our journey thus started on a difficult note,
As we had no one upon whom to dote,
We were just stranded on the street,
In the winter cold and the summer heat.
Our life was duller than the gray old man,
And darker than a rusted metal pan,
Winning fights was a major survival skill,
With our motto, getting killed or to kill.

We know that our world is very cruel,
As just for thriving, we have to duel.
But hope is our most potent weapon,
More useful than a sword or a gun,
As we expect of being at a better place,
Where life does not feel like a disgrace.
With us being treated like precious loads,
Till our deaths, in dreamy abodes.