WHO MADE HIM?

He walks on the streets of dust
He finds no rest after dusk
Yet he seems to be invisible-
He is human, and that fact
They are afraid to face
But why can't they see him as thus.

His skins are broken, teethes are rotten
And as for his black hair,
All transformed to yellow.
He's black-not white
Neither an albino nor blonde.
Was this the way he was made?
But who made him?
And why made him?

These questions they are confused at.
Some say for an experiment
And if it be the truth,
Why him?

I can see him under a tree
Trying to hide from the sky’s sympathy
He feels lonely and drenched.
Someone please find him a shelter
Though He is half buried in mud
As the skies cry for his welfare.
Yet he can't help it
Because he is mad.
But who made him?
And why made him?