The Bus Stop

I sat on the benches
and saw beside a man;
an old man, grey
hairs almost gone.

Sitting there, he waits
For something I know not,
In his hand, a bag-
its weight he has borne.

Occasionally a passer
would drop a coin, two;
Sometimes a child, points
Curious enough to say:

"Why is the man there?"
She asks her mum, instead
Silence, the response-
is but a swift tug away.

Certainly the mother
is but a child in age;
yet to her, the man-
is but a child in place.

Another coin drops, clink
into the cup; The bag stays
by his side, heavy filled
with stories, now a waste.

The bus is coming
to take me home;
Eventually to come, even if late-

But the old man who sits,
To where does he go?
On the dry-grass patches
For whom does he wait?

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Little thought, completely unrelated:

Trust is like a mountain. To climb it, one must subject oneself to the harshness of the elements, the trials of the road, have the humility to bow against the winds and the perserverance to keep climbing.

And at the top, after all that suffocation and strangulation and seemingly-restricted life, along the restritcted paths.

You reach the top, and behold

The freedom of wonder
The freedom of sight.

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