The man moves on the road,
with hands covered with dust,
the little, cute friends adhering to his
fingers every step.
Touching every single of the land he goes
through,
he knows how long he has gone with fingers.
He feels the land, cherishing all the perception
he got,
Hard, soft, warm, and cold, only he knows
with the bare hands.
He got proud,
being proud of able to measure the land,
a skill others hardly get.
He approaches the world with all his
passion,
where full of people,
a place with warm land.
He expects the warmth from the bottom of
his hand,
like the cotton pillow on the bed he once saw
through the window.
The thistles and thorns are present in front
of him.
Having no choice, but move on.
The man moves fast, anxious, with the dirty
hands.
Red blood offends the crowd.
He gets confused, why the world abandon him with
cruel back.
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