Homeless

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.