You see me walking down those affluent roads of yours with my filthy, torn ragged clothes and broken shoes. But I can see your judgement on your face.

As if to say, who are you? You even chase me away with your vicious dogs. Yet I once belonged to that society of yours.

Yes, I could be your son or daughter, but you fail to see that. All that you see is this pest scavenging in your filthy bins.

You don’t even know me or my circumstances and why I landed on these streets.

Most days, I see my granddaughter playing on the school ground. I still have a small photo of her in my torn coat.

She doesn’t even know me or that I am her grandfather. Tears began to roll down my sun-baked face, and it never stopped.

Yes, we come in all shapes and sizes. There is no colour to our way of life. So why do you still judge me?

I have more true friends on these streets than I had when I was in your shoes. I still dislike those terrible storms and the rain.

Darkness is still not my friend. I hate it with a passion. I crave the warmth of my family, but I know that it will never happen.

So who do you think I am?