The Streets We Call Home

The Streets We Call Home

Beneath the skies, where dreams unfold,
A thousand tales remain untold.
The streets, they hum a soulful tune,
By dawn's first light or the midnight moon.

A man with a cart, his treasures to bear,
Pushing his world through the cold night air.
A child with chalk, drawing stars on the ground,
Imagining worlds where hope is found.

The vendor’s cry, the busker's song,
Each rhythm beats where hearts belong.
Shadows dance on the crumbling walls,
Echoes of laughter, faint as it falls.

Here love is fierce, though shelter is thin,
And struggle wears the patience within.
The cracks in the pavement cradle small dreams,
Born of resilience and quiet schemes.

The night brings whispers, the day carries noise,
Faces of sorrow, of joy, and of poise.
A tapestry woven in hues of despair,
Yet lit by the glow of those who still care.

For in every step, every glance, every sigh,
Is a spirit that refuses to die.
The streets may be tough, but they cradle a flame,
A testament to life's unyielding claim.