a human being

In the moment of helplessness and despair,

When just one more stone would have caused him to collapse,

He could not find a single person to comfort him.

Had he possessed money, he might have turned his gaze elsewhere,

Or if he had authority or knowledge,

He might have found a place to lean on.

But he had nothing,

Nothing but the tattered rags that wrapped around him.

With no other option coming to mind

Other than dying if he remained still,

He ventured out into the streets. In the streets, he thought,

There would be people in situations worse than his own,

People accustomed to begging for help

Or receiving it, weakened by their circumstances.

So he shared warm water and meals from the ration house

With the people on the streets, listening to their stories.

In doing so, he neither found the value of life

Nor seized a purpose or direction.

He simply clung to whatever place he could find.

He was not there to listen to the stories of the vagrants,

But to see his own reflection in their eyes

And to weep silently within his heart.

The vagrants pour out their lives to him,

Paying no heed to his gloomy expression.

He is only silently weeping inside.

With no other option coming to mind

Other than dying if he remained still,

He needed a place to cling to.