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Apr 2020
Under filthy blankets we sleep,
Discarded people of the deep.

We have been cast away,
Labelled: “Rejects” off the Day.

Hence forged a society of our own,
Our derelict, comfort zone.

We feel no shame,
‘Cos most, don’t acknowledge our name.

Once fragile, untainted and pure,
We are now conditioned to endure.

The street hands out no concessions,
Only despairing depression.

Silent mocking voices whisper,
"Why try?"
"Simply lay down and die!"

Probe these cavernous eyes,
And heed a Philosopher in disguise.

Tour the derelict deep,
Watch discarded disciples fast asleep.

When all has been said and done,
“Will we still matter to anyone?”
Years of exposure and responding to traumatic incidents of crime eventually took its toll on me. I took on the pain of victims and was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. I was labelled clinically depressed. Trying to regain a sense of perspective and purpose of life I had the privilege of meeting persons from all "levels" of society.
Off particular interest to me was the ability of "street dwellers" to "cope" with depression despite the daily hardships they faced. Leading "simple" life routines, many were more in touch with their inner-selves and the spirit of hope, and an essence of living shone deep within. Many, although they didn't mention it expressly, were entombed in a retreat, a "temple" embedded deep within their "rubber suits" (physical body).
Faroz Abdool Basha
Written by
Faroz Abdool Basha  52/M/South Africa
(52/M/South Africa)   
54
   Bogdan Dragos
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