A nameless figure ambles across Pushkin Square.
Weary with burden.
Discarded by the world.
He treks through ice and snow and despair.
The bitter gale grasps
At his clothes, at his limbs.
For this wretched frail being it has not a care.
It sweeps the man's only
Ushanka off his head.
His hat lost in the night, almost more than he can bear.
Stopping to rest,
He shelters on a doorstep.
Reaches into his pocket, there's a photograph there.
An old worn picture.
It's damp from the snow.
One glance and the man's heart aches and he stumbles off the stair.
Tears frozen solid
On his weatherbeaten cheek.
He continues on his way, although he doesn't know where.
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