037
Along the dirty pavement of an old city,
where each dark alleys are covered with peasants begging for alms.
The blind old guitarist were cramped in the corner most of the alley,
gently strumming his worn guitar, creating harmonies to get some dimes.
The melody travels along the cacophony of voices,
masking the reality behind the poor and dark passage.
The music lives behind the curtain, overlooked by their velvet and silk dresses.
T'was a horrible reality where poverty is their entourage.
The blind old guitarist continued strumming his ancient guitar,
hoping against all odds to have enough dimes for dinner.
As the sun hides behind the veil and darkness enters,
the blind old guitarist will also welcome the cold night without shelter.
The few dimes in his can will be portioned for dinner and breakfast,
for tomorrow's an unknown day in which alms might be absent.
And as cruel as it is, some of those dimes will not last,
for there are vendors whose humanity's been murdered and kindness is not present.
The old blind guitarist cannot do anything for no one was there to guide and protect his rights.
He will continue to undergo the harsh and horrible treatment of humans.
He will continue to strum his guitar until his finger bleeds just to have a bread to bite.
He will continue to suffer all season because he does not have the privilege like those who are seated in a sedan.
—Eirlys 💧