Gods of the street

O' stray souls of the street,
Whose bones ache and hearts bleed,
I see you there—waiting,
Unseen, unnamed, forgotten,
As the gods of this land feast,
And you, you wait for scraps,
Your hunger a prayer unanswered.

O' faithful friend, eyes sunken like forgotten wells,
Your fur matted with neglect,
Legs trembling, as if each step
Is a prayer to the earth below—
To give you something, anything,
To fill the hollow in your belly,
And the void in this broken street.
Yet no one sees. No one notices.

O' mother, once free on endless fields,
Now chained to the heart of this city's heat,
What happened to your wide-eyed grace?
The sacredness once sung by children,
Now lost in the groan of weary bones,
In the weight of days that drain your strength,
While people pass you by,
Too busy to notice your labored breath,
Too quick to forget what you once were.

O' creatures of fur and flesh,
Bound by hunger and heat,
Where are those who would lift you up,
As they claim to lift your spirit?
Where are those who sing your praises
But fail to feed you, heal your wounds?

The street is filled with ghosts—
Of those who have already passed,
And those who await their time,
Quietly, painfully fading,
In the shadow of the very gods
They are meant to embody.

O' stray souls of the street,
You taught me that love is not just words,
That care is not an offering,
But a duty—
To those whose hearts beat alongside ours,
And whose suffering will, in time, define us.