He seems so unlucky, so seedy
His dark eyes implore some kindness
His amazed hair recalls his idleness
His shoes have come off his fallen body.
The outside man had suddenly lost his work
The fate had deposited him along the street
Under the insensible lights which paint the street
Along the walls, he dreams about misty work.
His pitiable face speaks of this difficult life
Reduced to begging in the name of strict economy
In the name of an injustice which called redundancy
In the name of a bad luck which consume life.
The garbage can is sometimes his small wages
Bottles of whisky invade his body all day long
Homeless, alone, dirty, he roams about all day long
Thinking of the past where he could earn wages.