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Poverty MAG
I saw an old man
hobbling along the desolate alley
- a place he called home -
his clothes
were ragged and torn
and what shone through was
skin as blue as the sea
the clothes that were still on him
were coming off
like a snake shedding its skin
his face was a gruesome sight,
it was like a wrinkled prune
telling of his past and future
with the many lines of life
I felt my face
it was smooth and young,
not wrinkled
how could I just stand there
watching
without bursting into tears
and the tears be pity for
this horrible sight of poverty I was witnessing
but through one of those lines of life
there was a gash as deep
as the Grand Canyon
this gash held many secrets of this
man's life
but who could call this life -
searching through filthy barrels
for any scraps to fulfill his needs,
sleeping on the frozen ground
with tiny shreds of newspaper
to keep him warm
Who could call this life?
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