He sat on the sideways
Hunched against the wall
Counting the end of his days
On the footpath where mosses crawl
His matted hair forms a nest
Gray locks hang like ropes
His eyes devoid of any quest
They seem robbed of hopes
His clothes are rags in shreds
Barest of any protection
His eyes sweep arrogant heads
They crave a drop of affection
I bend and offer him a coin
His eyes suddenly lit up
His fingers quickly join
And he looks up
His long nails grab the coin
Nails, he has not cut in ages
He reclines back to a quoin
And counts his wages
His eyes seem so distant
He reverts to a shadow figure
He camouflages in an instant
As if, that is what he would prefer
Niharika Prasad
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