his head bleeds rivulets of flowers
on the street with few passerby
but there is still naught, not
a worrier, we are all sons of this soil
which has imbued in us the shield
of defense against pain, poverty,
wound and death, we are all idols
of this soil with our open eyes
that see but never could comprehend.
we are solemn in our expressions
but only if it could turn into actions
that we have long forgot the story of,
there is pain in every glance, and
that is all there is to it, our hands
clutching our breasts as we pass by,
our eyes squinted with the soil kernels
touched by his blood, fainted of life,
(of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions.
his toes are half hidden beneath a car
(is he just asleep, my eyes ask me,
I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby)
a turbaned man sees through his shield
while speaking on his phone, the lips
next to me tell of the blood I failed
to see or sniff and him being passed out
by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die,
may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.
There is a story to it. May be it is not worth discussion because “what it is” is “what it is”. Words yield power but they do not change things/situations always for that man or for me and for the other passerby.