Through variant ways,
he leads his own way.
Man on the street,
in dirty apron rags,
in aimless wander,
a stranger in grotesque
walk.
What lump, yet
to be broken
to make free his spell?
Considered mad
in a differentious environment
hitherto unknown,
but privy to his being.
Man in filt,
a stranger unclothed,
an inside foriegner,
a scanvenger in character,
alone,
a noontide traveller
without acquintance.
Might his world
taste sweeter
if his footprints
bear no care?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem