Alone, sitting on an iron chair,
staring at a rusty window,
listening to a rustling wind.
I smell the fume of burning
dried twigs and leaves
from the dying non-bearing tree.
And still, it presence make me feel
as I am not the only one
who is dying from the prickly heat.
And now, alone as the non-bearing tree
without a fragrance and blooming flowers.
We, with this dying creature,
accept who we used to be---
A slum amidst of wealthy town;
a whore amidst of honorable man.
As we still stood to furnish,
to live and not to let die.
We, the standing emblem
of pursuing and persevering one.