A Newspaper and a Matchbox

The cold breeze is sharper than the knife

surpassing easily through my thin cotton shirt,

I have been repeating since the day

someone mercied it on me!

Wintery waves seep into my soft skin

chilling into the bone,

reaches down my spine,

and numbs my senses.

With half filled belly 

with the fire of the sun,

Barefeet,

I run from street to street,

in search of any place,

With some crowd,

With some warmth.

Disappointed

all I see is shuttered shops,

closed doors

and secluded streets,

getting darker and colder 

by each step, by each second.

I start to prance miles in minutes,

just when my eyes 

light up to see a full blazing fire on the side 

of the street,

with this woman sitting by its side calls me from far,

to halt for a while,

loan some warmth

and salvage the cold night...

I smile at her, she grins too.

She reminds me of someone back in my place, shivering with cold.

Leaving, I ask for a newspaper and a matchbox 

to keep my mother warm for the night.

She gives me more, saying

"Winter wouldn't last for one night son!"