Everyday I saw one man standing outside the gate,

He was the same man every time with the same fate.

His eyes were peculiar with dark fringes,

As if all night the television is what he binges.

He was so pale and malnourished,

it looked like even in begging he didn’t flourish.

His hair looked so smoky and grey,

And his body was so frail.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse,

It felt like the words would sound better when spoken by a corpse.

His countenance had wrinkles,

So sad and melancholy,

That whenever he smiles his face never twinkles.

His clothes were so tattered,

That it looked like he picked them up from a broigus where everyone gathered.

Even his silhouette was dull and glum,

it appeared as if it had nothing left to become.

He was so lonely and forlorn,

That his only option was to be affected by suicide-borne.

One day, I gazed and tried to find where he was,

He had vanished-maybe for a cause.

I was anxious and solemn,

I guess it was a big problem.

Did he lie down into the world of multitude?

Or did he find himself seeking a place in the solitude?