The streets, the silent, dark and misty streets of my country, where no one comes and no one passes, where daylight cannot reach, where the moon comes every night but does not pass its silver shine – these are the street where the homeless and poor people of my country live and sleep.
The old and the young, with no home, no food, no love to feel, still live with a hope that one day, this will change, some day they will have happiness and glory surrounding them and they will also feel the comforts of live.
Many of their friends, living with them, are lost in the shadows of time, waiting for some magical moment to appear, but it never appeared.
They remember their lost friends, this brutal memory make them bleed, shattered their hopes and dreams into pieces but they live again – more.
The old, with all their life now behind them, suffer with illness, misery and despair, with no one to look after them, care for them, and end their loneliness – they already feel dead.
They were once young, had families, many of them came from far away places to make a fortune in these big cities – but the light of these cities took the light from their lives and left them with nothing but to beg for food and shelter.
They don’t know what is happening in the world, how science has changed everyone’s life because everything for them is the same. They get the worse from everywhere.
The homeless people of my country – they were not born to be homeless, but who will help them? Who will come forward and give them a shelter and a better living? They carry their weakened body and fading eyes with a hope for help from us. But do we care, do we even know?
The homeless people of my country – the unknown souls yet live and struggle for a better life.