The Story That Has Never Been Personal

I never found, myself reading. Even before reading, studying a book, that publish alphabets. Many times I drawn, on the walls and, ragged curtain of the door, of my so called illegal shelter, those simplest rudiments, but never I understood, meaning of linears. I saw that old man, on the only cot, under an only trickling roof, struggling with breadth, of both the home, and his body. I observe him, defeated, on both the posts, still on the only cot, under the blue sky, of June sun. I could never expect, that old lady, beside me, on the city pavement, offer me a saucer, full of ingredients. Even never I was expected, to see her utensils, satisfying her hunger, until the thousands of unknown eyes, including mine, watched her sleeping for long time, for never to awake. I attended several times, many unknown visitors, to blacken their wears of foot. I cleaned many times, the bigger transparent mirrors, on the blackened platforms, above the wheels. I offered many moments, my empty hands, before the society, to fill it with something, that could indicate, those unknown people, who gave me birth. There is not only one, to whom these incidents, may concern. There is not only one, who bear, all the kindred facts. Even there is no one, who stop on the pavement, and care, to take those lives, to the acceptable societies. Even then I only blame to one, that poet, who told my story, to the world, in the syntactical form, rather than sententiously.