In The Deserted Street <br /> <br />Wandering lonely through silent and chill night, Kathup is a street Arab. <br /> <br />He never knew warm home, he never beg for anything. <br />he only knew sharpen wind, as his life on the razor-sharp sword. <br /> As his life like grassy dew, in a moment, it will vanish under the sun. <br /> <br />His home located in the corner of street, where he worn in ragged clothes of age, <br />some are worn out, some are never to wear. <br />his pillow is heap of monument, <br /> on it engraved his ancestor’s history. <br /> <br />He doesn’t have address, as well as nor dress, desired home far from his eyes, still a desire to keep a warmth in his broken hearth. <br /> <br />Hunger invited him in his empty stomach, let starvation in, to shriveled skeletons of his little limb both sides of street. <br /> <br />Some called him “black boy.” As if he came from Africa, even though he was not, proud of his black face, a real face, a human face, smiling and white teeth shown out. <br /> <br /> Great pyramid wrapped in desert, to dedicate an immortal spirit of that country. It was not belong to him and world, but it was a part of African civilization. <br /> <br />Potala Palace erected in his memories that was true his civilization and tower of his history. <br /> <br />The cold wind caressed his face, as if folk song in the drumming time. <br /> <br /> <br />Wandering each street, he get a cold heart. maybe day is hot, night is cold and life is wild. Nor shelter for storm rain; nor cloth for chill wind, nor warm bed for sleep. <br /> <br />Alive with spirit, determination, emotion and affection. <br />Will he deserve a street Arab in the deserted street?<br /><br />Kathup Tsering<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-deserted-street/
