poverty paradise


Festivals celebrated for the end of the year.
Homeless people encrypted with past time.
When they look at pedestrians, begging for money their eyes look like broken umbrellas.
For that day lives are without fear.
At night people stand looking like rusty nickels
After nine the park turns into a house of terrors.
The wind hits you like a stripper without the pole
Only after ten is when the money keeps her clothed.
Cracks of drums beat on the cement
People gather like loose instruments.

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