Here I am in the middle of the city, under sky-ways, drenched, filthy, and alone.
The rain stopped, but its waters lingered on the streets I call home.
Tis be one of the many nights that I shall sleep in the cold, damp, and bustling air of the metro.
I have neither decent roof nor a mobile house.
This large city has been my home, for over a year now.
I am quite accustomed at going from place to place to find a spot to lay my head.
I don’t mind walking and sleeping on stranger’s properties.
I don’t mind about scavenging just to fill my groaning stomach.
Never did I detest begging for money.
But, I’ve always loathed other people’s stare.
The look in their eyes may be different, but they inflict the all too familiar pain.
Since I’ve sunk into the lowliest human status,
If you may call it as such, my heart never stopped aching.
Strangers look at me with disgust, fear, shame, and pity.
All too different, yet all too familiar feelings.
There were times that I would not mind them.
Among the four, I detest mostly the look of fear.
I never dreamed to be someone people would fear.
I haven’t done anything to cause them to fear me.
Ah! It may be of my filthy clothes, lice-infested hair, yellow-black teeth,
and an altogether hideous appearance.
Nonetheless, I see nothing wrong with what I’m doing.
I feel totally comfortable at begging people for a few pennies.
At least, I am not stealing from others.
Days like sitting near a train station has been tiresome,
but it suits me.
I feel like a landlord waiting for my peasant farmers to come
and grant their harvest.
It may be a little different, but still I liked the idea.
I am thankful for those who give me food,
For that means I won’t be searching
For nearest garbage bin to find my dinner waiting.
But who am I, by the way?
I am nobody.
No one truly cares for me.
I reckon, nobody remembers me.
The woman who gave birth to me, the man who donated his genes,
Nor the nearest kin have long forgotten me.
I am nobody and no one cares for me.
You may think that those who give a dime care for me;
They do not.
They give because their conscience tells them to,
Without it, I would probably be dead by now.
People give for various reasons,
Some for love, out of genuine concern,
and others to show that they too
have a heart for the needy.
But for a beggar like me,
The poorest of the poor,
Who would truly care?
Not even you, reader.
And why do you even bother reading this?
Have you anything else to do that you
Made up to this point hearing my prideful woes?
Ah… I think I have exhausted myself from so much talking.
I haven’t told my entire story yet.
You heard of my petty perils,
But not of my deep sorrows.
Let my feet take me out of this damp road,
I am now to find my hidden nook.
Pray that I will see tomorrow,
So I may speak of the complete truth.