By Adama Bojang
We dont know the story behind his blue stature.
His eyes, sunken behind the leathery cloak
Of a skin. The hackneyed clothing hangs down
By thread, beckoning for spare change.
He sits in destitute, his body cramped
And beaten down like the untuned guitar he holds close.
As you look deeper, the skeletal frame shows
Evidence of days without food.
And if he lifted his head, you would see the horrors of the world:
Your sister robbed
With a pistol to her head,
A family being torn apart by immigration,
An orphan, crying on the window sill
Waiting for a so-called parent who’s forgotten about
The child she’d left in the street.
Keep looking you might hear the sweet
Sounds of hope. No more despair,