So cold the night is to those who have no home.
To those who sleep under tables and in front of a shop they still call
home.
To those who suck breast milk under the supervision of the moon.
To those who don’t hear their own voices even when they cry for help.
So cold the night is.
At dusk; the night before they begin their task
They prepare themselves for the sweat they’d have to wipe off their
rough faces.
The pimples they had from improper care of the skin serve as gutters
for the very salty sweat of failure that gallops down their dignity.
With their children behind them, they scream.
Not asking for help, but offering it.
They lay their pride down for the unexpected to walk on.
And still show respect after being disrespected.
So cold the day to these ones.
These ones who carry pans of distress and head out with their heads
down.
These ones who eat of the fruit of their labor and never get satisfied.
These ones who give up on life to be given a life.
So cold the day is.
To they that cry.
They that die.
They who teach themselves to survive.
They who are deprived.
So cold...
Dheric Da Poet
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