I saw, once, a man roaming by,
Torn and dusted clothes, he wore.
A face full of grief and sigh,
Timeless lores to unfold.
The face reminded me of a monster I saw,
On a book of gold I read,
The unbearable disgust shaking me,
Waking me from the dream I have had.
His face, a ghost of past,
still a ghost at present and the future to last.
What was this feeling I had, I pondered,
With childish innocence, as the car I was in wandered.
That face, I remember still,
The dusty old face that haunts me,
A cold shiver, a tremor, like drill,
Why, that parasite, that society flea!
I remember how I watched that day,
The monster going on his way.
Now, I know it was not the man but the thought
About the man in rag,
That he, a poor one, and me, a lad of rich,
Born so far, yet having the same end
It terrifies me–the thought that we are not that different.