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The Streets

The streets are full of people

walking, running, laughing, others just mum

while everyone is busy with their own life

an old man lies on the street

curled up on the side, in this cold dark night

his white hair showing under the street lamp

his skin against his aged bones

he’s nothing but skin and bones

 

They walk past him, not caring, not daring to care

either afraid to or plainly just nothing

I observe from afar, divided by the glass of the window

as the rain slowly trickles down

the old man tugs on his ragged clothes

and torn up sack of a blanket

he shivers, he’s cold

yet he lay there still, not moving much

perhaps too cold to

perhaps too sleepy to

perhaps too weary to

or too hungry to move

 

A saint I am not but a bowl of soup in hand

would surely fill his stomach and soul

but before I could get up from where I was seated

a good Samaritan came

covered the old man with warm blanket

and gave him food to eat

she took him to a shelter afterward,

not far from where he lay

 

The streets are harsh

difficult to survive

but that night it was different

that night it became warm

warmer than a summer’s evening