She resides on the street outside my office,
from sleepy mornings to crowded nights.
Apparently we share the same working hours.
The hands of Norther has begun to claw
through coats and bones with greediness.
And I worry that she might catch the cold.
Her patient resilience and humble posture,
head bowed down, hand stretched out
constricts my heart in terrified recognition.
She looks like a queen dethroned.
Where was her kingdom before this street?
She seems ageless but infinitely ancient.

I wonder...

What’s it like to watch legs pass you by,
briskly stomping away in annoyance.
How dare she remind us about the flaws of life.
That we are less human than we admit
behind our busy faces and comfortable shoes.
What’s it like begging for plated coins,
when you’ve sacrificed everything
in a foreign country digging for gold?
Humiliation convolutes my heart
every time the ignorant titter of the young
and the turned away faces of the old
depreciate her existence.

Despite my fidgeting just minutes ago
I slowed down by the corner,
searching an answer in her fathomless eyes,
The story of sacrifice is clasped in her hands,
a framed picture of a boy and a girl.
The scribble on it says: ”Please help,
me and my children are starving.”
I knelt beside her,
shyly stroking her weathered hand
before placing the hot Chai by her side
and laying down my tribute in her paper cup.
Her hand held warmth,
when grasping mine, lifting it to her lips.
The kiss and gentle blessing startled me.

Rising to my feet again and heading back
to my comfortable office...
...it started to rain.