Poetry

With cupped hands I see him standing at a traffic light
and around him lines of cars drive past,
while people go on with their own lives
and some drive faster,
others cut in before others
and in silence he stands there without a single word.
 
At a shop window he sometimes stand with wide eyes,
where new clothes, very expense toys
are almost touchable near to him
and he does wish on this Christmas
to get something special
 
and his clothes are in tatters,
his black skin almost grey from hunger,
impatient cars continually blow on their horns
and he dreams about a large and pretty house
where the most delicious smells linger in the kitchen
and sometimes people look at him with pity,
 
while he longs for a very special kind of place
where a lost son is always welcome,
where God Himself stand welcoming with arms open wide,
where you can smell the fragrance of roasted lamb
and nobody does experience grief, are hunger or cold.
 
An old lady sincerely takes pity on him,
pushes a hot loaf of bread and a bottle of milk in his hands,
while others avoid him
and he does miss his father and mother who are both dead,
thinks this is how Christmas is
and suddenly his teeth glitter in a smile.