Insignificant news in papers.
A life that is not it.
Solitude. Silence. Hunger. Poverty.
Probably also a lot of mental problems.
I met him accidentally once,
while I wander around the fortress downtown
I was afraid because it was getting dark,
but the person beside me said
we probably entered his territory
somewhere near the old fortress walls
He followed us after for sometime
with a dull look in his eyes
Maybe he wanted to be secure
that we were gone because people
sometimes are too cruel to people
on the margins, because they don‘t
think they are people at all
Maybe he was hungry and lonely
He was wishful for
someone who will
see the human in him
and give him some words
that he didn‘t heard long go
After I read that he died
unnamed, unknown,
in the piles of old quilts
Probably he was frozen to death
because the winter is not so gentle
to ones who can‘t hide from it
Nobody would write a poem about him
It‘s not true; I just did
I wished to believe that somebody
took care of him like my
grandma use to do it
in a shelter for the homeless in Rijeka
To be human is not to be afraid of
but to step ahead towards unknown
At least that is cruel as
life and death of a homeless man
Someone who isn’t dear or
needed to anyone
but is still human
out of flesh and blood
problems and emotions
like you and I