Tuesday, 3 April 2007

Stories Of The Street

The stories of the street
Are all my own.
It is here, where
I walk all alone.

I do my time
Till the sun is shone.
Then I stride –
A stone among stones.

Past is buried
In these alley walls.
It’s shouting like the scriptures
In a shopping mall.

And a kid’s graffiti
That reads louder than words.
Louder than silence,
Yet unheard.

When the lights go down
I hear a symphony that’s crass.
People say its waltz,
But I say it’s jazz.

They can’t stop fighting
They can’t let it go.
So I start drinking
To warm my bones.

It gets so cold
So cold at night.
Children singing songs
Mothers passing by.

Ghosts of soldiers
Waving in their suits.
Just got back from war,
With their medals and their dirty boots.

Old man singing about
His long lost love.
Hands are open wide,
To something up above.

I never pray
I just do my time.
Here on this street
The stories are all mine.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

nice poem its kind a like the soundtrack to a Bergman film bout poverty-kabeer