We are the men with no names
that roam and clutter your streets
curling in the corner of doorways
half-hidden under a bridge
lay on a blanket of mud.
We are the men with no names
who are haunted by the past
and fearful of the present.
Our feet fester
and our bodies know no end to pain.
We are the men with no names
forgotten.
We cry out for you
our brothers and our sisters
but our cries are washed away
with the wind
and our tears are dried by the sun.
We are the forgotten ones
the men with no names
drifting along your streets
waiting for death
published in: PBS.org – Frontline
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