We exist
among beggars and whores,
the clairvoyant of the past
and the historians of the future.
We follow
their traces of stench and lavender,
their shadows hovered by pity
and stalked by lusts.
We hear
their woes and words
muted by coins and begging cans
and shouts and slaps from pimps.
We see
what their eyes deprive them:
the crowd in the streets
and the leafless trees.
We watch
how they sit on the concrete bench
and eat the leftovers in their bags
or how they probe the dusk.
We exist
to count and catch their tears,
to turn them into pearls
and the saddest ones into rain.