I saw an old man

hobbling along the desolate alley

- a place he called home -

his clothes

were ragged and torn

and what shone through was

skin as blue as the sea

the clothes that were still on him

were coming off

like a snake shedding its skin

his face was a gruesome sight,

it was like a wrinkled prune

telling of his past and future

with the many lines of life

I felt my face

it was smooth and young,

not wrinkled

how could I just stand there

watching

without bursting into tears

and the tears be pity for

this horrible sight of poverty I was witnessing

but through one of those lines of life

there was a gash as deep

as the Grand Canyon

this gash held many secrets of this

man's life

but who could call this life -

searching through filthy barrels

for any scraps to fulfill his needs,

sleeping on the frozen ground

with tiny shreds of newspaper

to keep him warm

Who could call this life?