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2 mins 159 2 mins 159

In the heart of the country,

Lived a man very insignificant.

He is long forgotten by the place,

And his house has long been vacant.

There are streets he used to pass by,

And the people he used to walk past,

And the flurry of greetings that he exchanged;

All of them, alive in a diary of his past.

His days might be dark now,

And he might not have enough to feed the keen,

But he still feeds the birds as he did,

When the light was the only thing he had seen.

He still walks out, in the first rain,

Without an umbrella, looking at the sky,

And even though his vision is clouded now,

His clouds can never hide the clouds that fly.

He is still kind to the people,

With whom no one else ever tries to be,

And still has a heart big enough,

To cry for them when there is no one to see.

He still trusts people, after all the betrayals,

And still gets broken by people under his sight.

Maybe he is really stupid to make such mistakes,

Or maybe faith in comrades lets him sleep at night.

And at the end of the day when dark takes over,

His memories are forgotten along with him.

And all of him dissolves in the void,

When the time comes between his life and him.

So in the heart of the country,

Where the insignificant man saw his last,

Lies an unopened diary of an unheard tale,

Lives an unaware present with someone's past.

But still, I feel what he might have felt too,

That little acts of kindness have huge might.

And such insignificance is exactly what we need,

To make the most significant step towards the light.

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