To the Downtown Eastside at first light I rode.
And what in the dawning did mine eyes behold?
But a dozen poor souls sleeping rough in the cold.
Some curled in alleys like leaves of autumn.
Others in doorways like things forgotten.
Unlike the cream—all fallen to the bottom.
One person. two persons, another and another.
A daughter, a son, perhaps a father or a brother.
All gripped in a desperate need to slumber.
How priceless such sleep to those who are weary.
Of lives desperate when they aren’t just dreary.
To nod off and perhaps die—what can the fear be?
Less dreaded for some than waking clearly.
Above piece written by Mr. Woodvine,
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