I am Paris. This is a part of me that no one sees. It is a part of me in plain sight but hidden. Only a few will notice me and some will even stand and stare at me as I lay with my dirty feet, my rags with dirt dripping off me like the sewer that sometimes is my home, my hat, my pen, and my pants made of the filth you blessed ones throw away. I too acknowledge my blessings that spill like the blood of future wars. Wars that will be waged by the homeless who on these street corners protest their agony but feet only pass by. In vain their voices whisper but only bikes cycle by, cars only honk by; the homeless shall one day prevail on these streets of Paris.
Le Louvre Des AntiquairesThey shall say no more. And the ones who will these pens to raise their whispers that no one heeds shall pick up muskets with them and say I am my brothers keeper. I have been watching you and you are ready because your time has come. You have been ready but trampling feet that do not care for the homeless have kept you down. See your brothers Paris; see your sisters Paris, see them when hungry and see that they never again beg for a meal. With taxes to start a new country, why can you not afford this Paris? And if your high taxes cannot do, pack an extra sandwich a day and give it to your homeless brother when passing bybecause you are him and he is you.
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