December in Paraiso

The trees are dripping stars
in Puerto Princesa
And gold flutters over the streets
But he never sees them, his eyes are fixed
on the cup in his hand
and the passing feet.

There is music always where the people gather
Songs of giving and of love
The parks are jammed with merrymakers
He is invisible
in the rush.

The night winds are kind
in Puerto Princesa
But not to a boy without clothes
Long after the parks are empty, the fountains still;
he huddles there – his cup filled

— with nothing but cold.

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