Guilt

He sat pale against the wall, a tramp
His pale self blending against the gray,
An unnoticed uncared for stranger
Not one in the bustling crowd cared.

He looked ancient,though he had seen just sixty summers,
No one wanted to spare any time for him;
Though even if one had stopped and spoken to him,
He wouldn't have heard, for he was away,far away.

In his own world of distant thoughts,those
That kept mercilessly repeating themselves
Those that did not leave him in peace
Those that haunted him time and again.

He, a survivor of a war that had rocked the world
He,who had been safe and secure in his home,
He,who had ensured that he and his family fled to safety;
He,who had been too busy with himself

Than to help that poor little boy who
one night had come knocking at his door;
Asking for safety ,ever so politely,ever so softly,
He remembered thinking how that boy resembled his own son,

Those eyes,oh how so innocent,were filled with fear,
and that quivering voice pronounced his nervousness,
"Everybody has been killed,"he explained,
"They killed my family and every other too."

Then the man understood that this kid
had run away from the next village,
The villagers having faced the wrath of the raiders
when they resisted their tyranny.

"It is this,"the boy continued,"this that they want."
He held up a shining medallion,
the pride of that village,some ancient treasure of theirs,
That had so far been in their holy shrine,now in those grubby little hands.

It was then that the sound was heard
And both instantaneously turned around,
the man knew that the blood thirsty hounds were back,
Unfeelingly,fearing his own safety,he shut the door close.

Outside he could hear the boy yelling,
the harsh voices of unseen men,
And even as he heard the footsteps fade;
Clearly, he could hear the gunshot in that night.

Involuntarily, the old man shuddered,
became momentarily aware of his surroundings;
then the pavement and the sea of people faded;
As the innocent face of the boy focused
And the ringing sound of the gunshot could be heard.

Ah! sometimes guilt ,call it an albatross,can lead to harder journeys than crime.