His eyes had a gentle sparkle,
The heat in the heart of a dying star.
His hands had a strength so weak,
And his chest bore a reddened, soul-shaped scar.
But the wind hurtled by without thought,
And the rain beat on down upon him with a hate,
And the others just walked by again;
He’d resigned himself – he welcomed fate.
The hail hit me hard as I ran,
I barged into him without any regret,
And charged along as he, bruised, lay,
And the cold, cobbled street left him grimy and wet.
I never thought once of that man.
My one goal that day was to escape the rain.
Now life will, each second, go on.
’Til I see once again the man’s eyes seared with pain.
My heart, it will then be weary,
Heaving the breaths of a dying star.
I wish that I could have saved him.
The man, in the road, with the soul-shaped scar.