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.