Poetry · poverty · winter

A winter morning!

One pale winter morrow,

A man was trying to sleep draping all his quilts

Oh it was so cold and sun was so lukewarm

The unsuccessful poor man was out of all his wits.

Did I say the mattress had its share of holes?

Did I say the quilts were torn?

Did I say his wife had died last night?

Leaving him dry and alone to mourn…

Through the big parts apart of the grass roof

The sun would throw his rays on his lids

His hut was in the marketplace to make the things worse

The same marketplace where lived a widow with her five crying kids…

I wish he could have slept sound that morrow

But his only sweater was his skin

Yeah the poor old sweater of his gave way to things to come

Sun shone bright over his dead body pale, lean and thin…


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