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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1023927
poem for the hard working people.
Every morning the light comes late
And I am not even in bed.
My hands polluted with the city’s dirt
Makes me proud but hurts.

Many do not care, few stop to help
But everybody waits and walks away.
Corner by corner the light does not wait
She is just in front of me and then goes away.

Dark again I find my way
The city will wait for another day.
Through my tired body my mind rests
Makes me proud but hurts.
© Copyright 2005 Roberto Carlos Noguera (betico at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1023927-The-Sweeper