On the Street

When I saw ihm first, I took him for a teenager, a young street punk, a run-away perhaps. Now, three years later, lines have been drawn into his face by three more cold winters and three more baking hot summers spent on the street. Scarce and bad food, not enough to drink, no sound sleep, no one to talk too, no one to trust. Surely not an anti-ageing cure, this kind of life …

He’s still wearing the same worn-out clothes. And he still appears to have no regular place to operate from. He’s always on the move, hurrying along, somewhat hauntedly. And he still does not speak. Uttering not a single syllable, just holding out some plastic cup to you and looking at you, glum and mute.

Maybe, he once was a brisk little boy just like I was. And then something happened to him that didn’t happen to me.

Life, for a good part, is a lottery. – And the winners should not be too proud.