His hands, outstretched and lean,
with much effort he lifts his voice
and the stench, o! Overwhelming.
Yet I looked at him, this beggar,
Homeless and degenerate.
I stare long enough to take in his situation,
Then, I turn away.
Yes! I did.
“He doesn’t exist,
He actually isn’t there.”
I owe him no obligation so I turn
And I tell myself that never happened.
Topic(s) of this poem: africa, aid, helpless, indifference, liberty, life, lifestyle, poverty, reality, sickness
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.