The day isn't at all different.
He gets up, like he always does,
From the dilapidated sheet of plastic
There's a brilliant spark in his eyes,
A bottomless ocean of many
Experiences, memoirs and happiness.
Men and women walk by in apparel,
The weather suits his mood.
He is happy, for new clothes shall he wear
The tattered old rags.
Drums beat with an unsual mix of rhythm and raucousness.
The music brought by the cool winds
That kiss his beardless cheek,
A cold, yet pleasant kiss.
And then, he stares
Into moments of time faded into oblivion.
Happier times, perhaps, they are
History, we wish,
But illusion, alas!
He stares, yet, eyes fixed
On a memory that existed, Or
Probably never did.
And then, he thinks of other things,
Memories he shall not like to recall.
They're events and circumstances that have led to this futile life,
Humiliation and shame filling the void of the soul.
A hand so soft, then touches his face.
A touch so heavenly that takes him to a world unknown
Yet, wished for, in his dreams.
The nimble fingers wipe off something from his cheeks
As drops of dew fall on his cold, weak arms.
The universe he now belongs to is above
And beyond all that man hath perceived.
You and I shall never know
Realisation might never dawn
Was it God or Nature
That took pity on this unimportant creature
And released him from a life so used to humiliation and torture?
The little boy remains there, holding on to the man
Father, he called. Streams of realisation flow down his tanned cheeks
Of loneliness dawning.
The man now looks not towards the Heavens,
Or the life of the Chanel clad lady in red.
Yet, there's a smile unparallel. An expression
Truly worth this futile life.