Wisps of smoke, and a floor cold,
A broken pavement, centuries old.
The refuge of wanderers left astray,
Seeped in our culture - dying today.
As the sun kissed the horizon, men poured in,
Masters once of a habit that pulled them in,
A curt nod, pleasantries were exchanged,
All the same, the homeless and estranged.
Lives intertwined, tales shared,
Love, grudges - nothing spared.
Faces of men old and new,
Friends, who I hardly knew.
And as words became muffled,
And the light in my hands lost,
We rose to leave, only to return.
Photo Credit: WeGraphics