Paris, Moscow, Berlin, New York, London,
City of angles where the poor are abandoned,

In a windswept corner of a merciless winter street,
The discarded soul of a divided nation sleeps,

This man is a forgotten mother's human jewellery,
He lounges on the concrete pillow of rich cruelty,

A blanket of cold wraps around his exposed feet,
Torn clothes flapping over another statistical tragedy,

He sleeps beyond the smears and headlines of hate,
The hymns of hope and light arrived way too late,

No one will remember his voice or fading songs,
For he is from the tribe of the invisible broken ones,

Their stories and brief lives brutalized by silence,
Once, they were a part of life's cosmic balance,

There is a war being waged upon the human soul,
A battlefield littered with bloodstained begging bowls.