Weary hand, a tired open palm, Dusty lines that show the age without happiness or calm; A torn-out cloth wrapped around a nimble body, Rotting away alone in a busy crowded city. Soulless eyes, hopeless and strange, And yet she stretches her weak hand for some change; Naked feet, cut marks from stones and sharp glasses where her blood flows like a melodious funeral song, Holds her strong enough but alas! not for long, We all know her as the Stranger of the street. She was once a daughter, A sister, maybe even a Mother; Now here she lies among the sick animals who are forced to eat garbage when in hunger, No one to call a family, Nowhere to call a home, this is where she will always be; Barely breathing, barely surviving... The stranger of the street. Hunger and thirst are her only company, Dust and prayers are her visitors that fills her lips but not her hunger; You have seen her shadowed in the streets of the rich; Seen by everyone but felt by none, decaying in the ditch. And yet you keep walking, You keep ignoring; Thanking the unknown God, that it's not you that's rotting away slowly, Thanking the unknown God that you are not the Stranger of the street. Her life story is being erased, As the noise and loneliness keeps her caged; But there she lies, among the forgotten, among the helpless, among the broken, among the living dead, Every single day, Until she becomes the part of the grotesque street dust, Until the street and she becomes one, A stranger seen by everyone, felt by none, forever lost, The street yet again prepares to welcome another stranger!