In this city of dreams
Of Bright lights and pulsating sidewalks,
Splendid wheels and shining glass,
He walks by, oblivious to it all.

His eyes lost in the ground
Ever searching......
For that crumpled bottle to fill his bag
His hungry and poor gunny bag.

His shirt, a patchwork of squalor, filth and lost dreams
Callused hands and wind swept hair
Feet bare, cracked and withered
Hollow eyes shining with ravenous hunger

No dreams for him though
Perhaps a cup of tea and a stale bun for the day.
No hopes for tomorrow
For he is Atlas, born to carry the weight of the privileged

In this city of dreams
Of love, enlightenment and empowerment.
He is,
The Voiceless