how far apart must our suffering be
before we can no longer tell; is that
kind of pain unworthy of you; is it
not educated enough or only meant
for plastic cups?

you can’t imagine living on the street;
you think they somehow like it there,
or maybe the street likes them and
makes it easy for them; didn’t they  
ask for it anyway?

if they can cross a river and not speak
the language then who can feel sorry;
they are tough enough; like a woman
having a baby; they’re made for it,
it’s as if it doesn’t count

is it so hard to respect someone born
to be poor; it has to be someone who
had it all; yes that is true suffering and
even worse is the thought of it; the view
from the terrace is terrifying

you know deep down inside they didn’t
write the blues for you; you’ve never
been that desperate, only that afraid;
that’s why you think about the streets;
they only walk on them