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Friday, February 5, 2016


I see them every day. They don't take much space,
A body folded small into a corner:
A bundle of faceless cloths, 
Hiding from London's cold,
Or the coldness of passers-by.
They beg with an old paper cup,
For some change to our humanity. 
(Sometimes, I just wish to sit next to them, 
Participate in the ritual of bundling myself. 
I may seem odd to them: no rugged cloths to dress, 
Not really jobless to beg for daily living, 
But still, I am as homeless as they can be!) 

Like the cold bundles on street corners, 
I came from far away, 
I left the home where I grew, 
I am as homeless as they can be.

Like them, I have no identity to show, 
My country today is nameless to me. 
Every day, I pass them by with envy, 
Wishing to crawl small, 

to hide in a corner, I call my own.  

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