often I hear them ! they live on the street.

often I hear them ! they live on the street.

“Dew on trodden grass” I can’t be dark nor shade blackness In their hungry, empty hollow eyes, Neither can I tear the veil That adorned their desires for life. Pretending to be anything; I hate most. Yet, a thin curve of my lips; the warmth The bonfire in their wintry night, That shines in their rainy, gloomy eyes. They always wait in the corner of the road, No doubt, for me only, I, with a

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