In a white night
After a dark day,
I was loitering around,
when got a glance of weary soul
bare footed and poorly dressed
and hosted tons of dust flies wing,
on whitish stinky skin,
For an onlooker he was like
a walking dead.
(seems as ripped off by the mercy of an angry god).
For him life is nothing but a
wound uncured ,or like a bird
engulfed by storm or a butterfly
for a child’s charm.
So was he, a roving vagabonds.
(pity that mocks our handicapped world)
In response to my childish quarry,
he smiled and snapped:
our life story ends in words two:
‘we are born to die.
(An irony ,will never be explained)