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Betere leesbaarheid

A Cigarette...

door killea

A cigarette...

Recently I came across a homeless man
the only thing I had was a packet of cigarettes
so I offered him one, and he took it,
he started to talk, and I gave him the time
listening to his story, the story of his life,
filled with successes, and downfalls,
he told me of the murder of of his sister
who comes to him in his dreams,
he cried real tears, about her calling to him,
his hands were rough, I felt them when he took mine
which he held, while his life's story poured
out of his heart, I wanted to go, but stayed,
my time was cheap, and his was everlasting,
from the troubles with police, and nowhere,
nowhere to sleep, his belongings in a backpack,
his pockets, and his laughter in between,
for the good times he remembered,
when he was someone, respected, employed,
fighting for the right, he thought was on his side,
I stood frozen to the spot, I could not go,
his story was so real, so painful, so honest,
he neither asked my name, nor my age,
he told me he was filled with love, not estranged,
kissing my hand, he said stay a little longer,
despite the passers-by, he began to sing for me
in Spanish, his beautiful voice, about Corazon,
I did not know the song, but his pride was in the tune,
he kissed my hand, and thanked me for my time,
I walked away, with sadness, love and touched,
by this experience, the homeless man's divinity.

JK

 

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