In The Deserted Street
In The Deserted Street
Wandering lonely through silent and chill night, Kathup is a street Arab.
He never knew warm home, he never beg for anything.
he only knew sharpen wind, as his life on the razor-sharp sword.
As his life like grassy dew, in a moment, it will vanish under the sun.
His home located in the corner of street, where he worn in ragged clothes of age,
some are worn out, some are never to wear.
his pillow is heap of monument,
on it engraved his ancestor’s history.
He doesn’t have address, as well as nor dress, desired home far from his eyes, still a desire to keep a warmth in his broken hearth.
Hunger invited him in his empty stomach, let starvation in, to shriveled skeletons of his little limb both sides of street.
Some called him “black boy.” As if he came from Africa, even though he was not, proud of his black face, a real face, a human face, smiling and white teeth shown out.
Great pyramid wrapped in desert, to dedicate an immortal spirit of that country. It was not belong to him and world, but it was a part of African civilization.
Potala Palace erected in his memories that was true his civilization and tower of his history.
The cold wind caressed his face, as if folk song in the drumming time.
Wandering each street, he get a cold heart. maybe day is hot, night is cold and life is wild. Nor shelter for storm rain; nor cloth for chill wind, nor warm bed for sleep.
Alive with spirit, determination, emotion and affection.
Will he deserve a street Arab in the deserted street?
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Comments about this poem (In The Deserted Street by Kathup Tsering )
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