The Old Unemployed Man Or a Suburban Poem

His oars (mind, arms, and legs) were insufficient as propellers to earn a living. In the underground´s nasty passageway; or was in his life´s nasty passageway? Anyway! There, he, like an imbecile, sat, another torn mendicant, holding up his hand to indifferent passers-by, asking for a gaze or just a word of hope. Hope! What hope? - The hope that remains as a candle into his heart. the little flame that every day fights the Almighty forlornness -. At night, unanswered the pray the candle would shrivel; and he became the symbol of a supplicant without faith, hopelessly holding up among his hands, and offering the burned out candle and misery of his life to others indifferent passers-by. There, at the underground´s nasty passageway. Or was it his own life´s nasty passageway? he huddled and covered with the black cloak of failure, remains sat in the midst of despair. Just till tomorrow.