The tragic figure doth stand forlorne,
no understanding for why he was born,
A ghost no less,
tall and frail,
witnessing every attempt at life fail.
No room at the inn,
no love in his heart,
is it any wonder he is falling apart?
Hope is a whore,
who endlessly lies,
for tonight,
alone,
he'll sleep beneath winter skies.
Bombay 1899
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