A stranger that holds open the metro doors when it’s about to drive away.
A stranger that watches into your eyes when you pass him on the way home.
A stranger that respects you the way you are.
That stranger that gives you the last newspaper there is found in the box.
That stranger that doesn't run when the bus is about to drive away.
That stranger that friendly shows you the road when you ask him.
Unfortunately that stranger is me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem