Bustling through the days,
has bustled through the years.
The feet, of all sorts,
naked, clad, old , young.
Running, walking, hurt and hung,
have passed through it,
day by day.
Over the years, everyday.
But it has,
only bustled over the days.
Comes night,
when the shadows dissolve,
and the humans nestle in.
That it offers a recluse,
the privacy, and comfort,
of what, that beggar,
at the footpath,
calls his home.
