My stomach is aching.
My fingers are sore.
The tourist come snaking.
More come, and more.
I beg them for money
because it's what I need most
but most of them run
their faces engrossed.
I lie on some cardboard
in the middle of the street
with a hole in my stomach
and nothing to eat.
Is there no-one to love me,
to give me a home?
Or must I live all my life
begging here all alone.
Sleep finally comes
and calms down my mind.
Death comes tomorrow
my life has resigned.
