Words.

He feels imprisoned on this earth, he feels confined … But if he is asked what he actually wants he cannot reply, for – this is one of the strongest arguments – he has no conception of freedom.

-Franz Kafka.

 The Homeless Man
He lay there in that crowded
train, strewn across a seat for
three, sleeping soundly amidst
the great roar of the tunnel.

No one said anything, nor
tried to get him to wake up.
We all left him alone there
lying in his condition.

His coverings were mismatched,
A tweed coat, pair of striped pants,
A black shirt, pair of old shoes.
And not only that: they stank.

He lay down on his side, his
right arm held between his thighs,
his left hand placed under his
bearded chin, his knees drawn up.

And there he lay in front of
us, sleeping soundly, the caves
placed aside for the time being,
the image of Modern Man.

 The Beggar
Old man, a balding head of pure white hair,
dressed in rags, sitting on the metro steps.
At least it was warm inside the station.
Propping himself up with his right elbow,
his right hand open, a single coin lay
nestled in his palm. I came from behind
him and added another coin into his
palm. He turned around to see who it was
from the crowd that brushed by him, his eyes wide
open, mouth gaping for a short instant,
before he managed to gather himself,
and said, “Merci! Merci Monsieur! Merci!”