that's me

If you find a drunkard
In the mist of winter morning
With sleepy eyes walking
Towards nowhere land
that is me

If you hear another poet reciting
Poetry in the middle of the market
Criticizing how full is your pocket
Laughing at your dirty teeth
That’s not another Ginsberg
That’s me

If you listen a rickshaw puller crying
In a mid-summer day
With his torn hat of hays
Sitting on the smelly wet leather saddle
That’s not a cry or a new fable
That’s me singing
Imitating the Fascists’ Killer

If you see a beggar walking
With bare toes on summer’s heated road
With no coins inside his pot
That’s me feeling my love of the land
That’s me letting the world go ahead
That’s me getting rid from the bullets

If you find a tree
With no leaves in spring
With no birds on its branches
That’s me
Being cursed for all the poems
I have written for the truth