he died on the street of pedro gil

he died on the street of pedro gil.
he was dirty.
who made him dirty?
the street? the stagnant water?
the cigar butt? the candy wrapper?

his arms were stretched out,
seeking for my help,
your help, his and her help.

rain was falling down on his cheeks
and washing away the coins
on his frail hands

tattered clothes covered
his nudity but not the fact
he was dying on starvation of
care, love and help.

his cough so rough was heard
'round the corner of taft, making
music with the passing of buses,
fx's, jeeps and pedestrian.

and as his sight turned into
darkness,
clouding passers-by disgusted him
of what he was, what he has and who he was.

now, we are dying on the street of pedro gil.