The mad man

He sits by the roadside, yelling, cursing and hurling abuses at passers by.
Perhaps, he is mourning his ill-luck, or crying hoarse about his miserable fate.
He is the mad man, they said, he has no home, no name and no one to call his own.

Sitting there all day, he stares at the milling crowd that has no time for him,
Or for his sad tale that he mumbles in a language no one understands.
He is the mad man, they said, he has no home, no name and no one to call his own.

He gets close to a few, to see if anyone recognises him and possibly know his name.
He seems to say, ‘I was not born insane; I too had a home and people to call my own.’
He is the mad man, they said, he has no home, no one to call his own, and no name, too.

Today, the mad man can’t be seen anywhere; his shack on the pavement is empty.
Maybe he has set out to another place, which is stranger than this and where he will be,
The mad man, who has no home, no name and no one to call his own.



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2 Responses to “The mad man”

  1. Ah! Madness, they say is another country… no one belongs there, not even the mad man!

    cheers!

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